FICTION

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1664, 20 January 1904, Page 3

FICTION

DOUBLE HARNESS.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Written for the ‘'New Zealand Mail”

"By ANTHONY HOPE, Author of the “Prisoner of . “Zenda, ” “Senior Dale,” “Rupert of Hentzau.” etc., etc., etc.

CHAPTER XIV. FOR HIS LOVE AND HI9 QUARREL Jeremy Ghiddingfold had established himself in lion don, greatly to his satisfaction. TELe had hired a bedroom in Ebury-street. a.n attio p , -and made friends with one Alec Turner, a journalist, who lodged in the same house. Alec Turner tools: him often to the Metropoilifciaaa Radical Club, and had proposed him for membership Hero lie could eat at moderate chargee, play chess, smoko and argue about all things in heaven (assuming heaven) and earth (which anyhow Vas full o*f matter for argument). And at ~ Ebury-street he was not only within, easy reach of tho Iraasons, in Sloano-streetj, hut equally wall in, touch with the Sol fords, in E'ccleatoa (Square, and- the Ray mores, in Buckingham Crate.* A third-class on the Underground. Railway from Victoria canned him to Liverpoo-l-street, whence he proceeded to works near Romford, in Essex. For the dyeing works project was taking shape. Jeremy had been down to Romford several times to look round and. se© what the processes were like. He hud digested the article on dyeing in the “Erteylopaedia Britannioa” and had possessed himself of the “Dictionary of-Dyeing” and tho “Manual of Dyeing.” His talk, both at tho Metropolitan Radical Club and at the houses 'he frequented was full of the learning' and the terminology of dyeing—things you dyed, and things you dyed the things with, and 1 the things you did it in, and so forth. He fascinated Eva Raymore by referring airly (and at this stage somewhat miscellaneously) to warm vats, and copperas, and lime vats, to insoluble basic compounds, to mordants and their applications, to single and double muriate of tin. Yoii could go so far on tho article without, bothering about the “Dictionary” or the “Manual” at all; but theca, Eva did not kno-w that, and thought him vastly erudite. In fact, Jeremy was in love with dyeing, and rapidly reconsidered his estimate of the Beautiful—tho Beautiful as such,, oven divorced from Utility—in the scheme of nature and life. On Alec Turner’s recommendation ho read Ruskirf and Wi r Ham Morris, and thought still better oi the Beautiful. Incidently he became a Socialist of th© extreme wing, but that is not so much to the present purpose.

He soon made himself at home froth at the Selfords’ and at the Raymores’, dropping in freely and causually, with an engaging confidence that everybody would bo glad" to see him and pleased to allow him to deposit his long, angular body in an armchair, and talk about dyeing or the Social Armageddon. He was, however, interested in other things too—-not so much in pictures, but certainly in dogs. Ho had country loro about dogs and their diseases and so won 'Mrs Selford’s respeot. Ho found Anna Salford’s keen mind an interesting study, and delighted to tease the pretty innocence of Eva Ray more. In inether house was there a young man—- • &on at the Selford’s, and the Raymores' house was empty cf theirs; and Jeremy, in his shabby ’coat, with his breezy jollity and vigorous young selfassertion, came like a gust of fresh wind, and seemed to blow the dust out of the place. Mrs Kayinoro, above all, welcomed him. He went straight to ■ her heart; she was for ever comparing and constrasting him with her own boy . so far away—and only just the inevitable little to his disadvantage. Jeremy in his turn' though unconsciously, loved the atmosphere of the Raymor'es’ house '—the abiding sense of. trouble, hard to bear, hut bravely borne, and the cl,ose- . ness of heart, the intimacy of love which it liad brought; Being at the Sejfords r amused him ; but being at the Raymorea’Jdid more than-that. And what of his 'broken'heart ? Anna Selford had heard the story and asked him once in her mocking way. ff You seem so - very- ’ cheerful, Mr Chiddingfold!” said she. Jeremy explained with dignity. His heart was hot broken; it had merely, been wounded. Not only did he cop- J Mdei' ii?Jhis' r and any man’s duty to ho ' cheerful^ibut. as a fact ho-found no difficulty in "being olieerf id, occupied as l|e was withj work of . lifei, and tainted hy a linn : purpose .'and an .ug«' shaken resolve. - |,m “Only I don’t care to talk about it ’h he added,, by which he meant really tlijt • : v^h^'did^hotC® 3 * to talk about it to

persons of a satirical turn. Mrs Raynioro could get him to talk about it very freely, while -to 1 EVa he woujd sometimes (usually for, short times) ba so moody and melancholy as to excite an interest of a- distinctly sentimental nature. It is to be feared that, like most level’s, Jeremy was not above a 'bit of posing now and then. He was having a vary full and happy life, and, without noticing tho fact, began gradually to be more patient about the riches and the fame.

Se|ford’s working partners were disposed to be complaisant about Jeremy and the dyeing works; they were willing to oblige Salford, and found themselves favourably impressed by the young man himself. But business is business. They could give him a pittance for ever, no doubt. If lie wanted that very different thing—an opening—other considerations came to the front. Good openings are nob lightly given, away. In fine, Jeremy could come and try his hand at a nominal salary. If he proved his aptitude they would be willing to hav'(T'Tilnrifor N '~jus;-iOir partner; but in that case he must put five thousand pounds into the business. The sum was not a large one to ask, they said; and with all their good opinion of Jeremy, and all 'their desire to oblige Selford, they could n<ot in justice to themselves, their wives, and their families, put t-h-o figure lower. It was rather a shock to Jeremy, this first practical illustration of the peffrrtiling truth that in order to get mtk/ey you •must generally have some first. Ho might give all he had in the world -and not realise five thousand pounds. He went to tea at the Raymores’ that evening with his spirits dashed. He had consulted Aloo Turner, but that young man had only whistled, implying thereby that Jeremy might whistle for the money too. The journalistic temperament was not-, Jeremy felt naturally sympathetic; so he laid tlio question before Mrs Raymore.

To her it was the opening of the sluice-gates. ’She was full of maternal love, damned up by distance and absence. She was tender and affectionate Edwards Eva, - but her love for her daughter was pale and weak beside her feeling for her only Son; and now a portion of the flow meant for far-off Charley was -diverted to Jeremy. She loved and could have wept over his brave simplicity, his sincere question as to how he could speedily make five thousand pounds. He was not a fool: he knew lie could not break the bank at Monte Carlo, nr write a play or a novel, or get the desired sum thereby if ho did; 'but he had the great folly which clings to men older than lie was —tho belief that blind, impartial fortune may show special divine favour. Kate Raymond smiled and sighed, if fortune were so easy to woe as that, 'Charley would not be at Buenos Ayres, nor would the great sorrow have shadowed their home. “Have you no friends who would guarantee it—who would advance it? You could pay interest and pay off the capital gradually,” she suggested. That was not at all Jeremy’s idea. “No, T .don’t want to do that. I don’t want to be indebted to anybody.” “But it’s a pity to let tlio chance slip from a feeling of that sort,” she urged. “Besides there’s nobody in our family who ever had such a lot cf money to spare.” said Jeremy, descending to the practical. ' He sighed, too, and acknowledged the first check to his ardent hopes, the first •disillusionment, in the words: “I mush wait.”

When a man says that he must wait, he lias begun to know something of the world. The lesson that often he must wait in vain remains behind. “But I shall find out some way,” ho went on (the second lesson still unlearnt). “Don’t tell anybody about it-, please. I’vo got a fortnight to give my answer in. They’ll keep it open for me till then.”

Eva came in, with her large yearning eyes, and her early charming girl’s wonder at the strength and cleverness of the young men she liked. In a very few minutes Jeremy was oonfideht and gay, telling her how he had the prospect of •a partnership in quite a little while. Ob, yes, a junior partnership, of oourse, and a minor share. But it ought to he worth four or five hundred a year, anyhow—yes, to start with. And what it might come to—in vigorous hands, with new blood, new intellect', new energy—well, nobody could tell. Mr Thrale’s casks and vats were not really—as a potentiality of growing rich beyond the dreams of avarice—comparable to Jeremy’s vats and mordants and muriates. Eva was wonderfully impressed, and exclaimed, in childish banter: “I hope you’ll know ' us still, after you’re as rich as that?” Jeremy liked that. It was just the sort of feeling which hisiwealth was destined .to raise in .Dork,.. Hutting. Meanwhile,, pending the absengo and obduracy of Dora, it was not unpleasant to see it reflected in Eva’s wondering eyes. Mrs fßaymore listened and looked on with a fixed determination to lose no time in breaking the injunction laid: on her, and. in teljing Grantley Imason that For a matter of five thousand pounds the hap-

pi ness of a life —of a life or two —was to be had. The figure was often cheaper than that, of course; less than that often meant joy or woe—far less. Witness Charley in Buenos Ayres, over youthful folly and a trifle of a hundred and fifty! But Grant ley was rich—she did not know that he had recently lent John Fanshaw fifteen, thousand pounds. In requital for services rendered at, the Metropolitan Radical, Jeremy had introduced his friend, Alec Turner, to the Selfords. Alee had come up to town from the staff of a provincial journal, and found very few houses open to him in Loudon, so that lie was grateful. He had a native,, although untrained, liking for art, and could talk a,bout pictures to Selford, while Jeremy talked about; dogs..to Mrs Selford; and both the young men sparred with Anna, whose shrewd hits kept them well on their defence. Alec went about Ms avocations in a red tie; a turned-down collar, and lively mustard-coloured clothes.. A -dress suit lie assumed reluctantly ■when ho was sent to report tho speeches of prosperous Philistine persons at public . dinners. He hated prosperous Philistine persons, especially if their prosperity (and consequent PhiListinit-y) came from art or letters,and delighted ip- composing paragraphs which should give them a little ' dig. He was, however, not ready illnatured, and wogld not have hurt the prosperous persons seriously, even if he could have: he was .anxious to declare that neither ha nor anybody else could, in fact,, hurt them seriously, owing to tho stupidity of the public—which was incalculable. Ho was a decided adsisance to Jeremy in enlivening the Selford household and in keeping Anna’s vats busy and bright. “I suppose ,nothing would induce you to bo successful ?” she said to him with malicious simplicity. “Success for me means something quite different,” Alec explained. “It lies 'in influencing the- trend of public opinion.” “But the public’s hopelessly stupid! It seems to me rather foolish to spend your time trying to influence hopelessly -stupid people:” Jeremy chuckled. He did not see how Alec was going to get out of that. “I spoke of the bulk. There is a small intelligent minority on whom one can rely.” “If you can rely on them „ already, why do they want influencing?” ob- ■ joe ted Anna.. “On whom one can rely for a hearing and for intelligent appreciation, Miss, Selford.” . “Then fche fewer people who care what you say, the more successful you really are?” ... , “That’s hardly the way I should put it ” .. „ . “No, I don’t -suppose you would, interrupted Anna. “But it comes to that, doesn’t it, Jeremy.” “Of course it does',” agreed Jeremy. “Tlio fact is, writing about things is all rot. Go and do something—something practical.” Dyeing was doing something practical. -

“Oh, yes, go into business, of course, and get rich by cheating! _ Trading’s only another name for cheating.” “Wqll, you’re right there for once,” said Anna. “Right?” cried ' Jeremy fiercely. “Well, then, why isn’t it cheating when he” (he pointed scornfully at Alec) “charges a ha’penny for liis beastly opinion about something?” “Ofi, it’s qot for mo soi say! You must ask Mr Turner that.”

In fact, tho discussions were of a most spirited order, since everybody was always quite wrong, and each in turn could be rapidly and ignominiousjly refuted, the other two uniting in a warm but transient alliance to that end.

This young and breezy . society was good for Selford and for his wife,, too. It gave them something to-think about-, and did not leave each so much time to consider the unreasonableness of the other. Tiffs became less frequent, the false sentimentalism of their reconciliations was less in demand; and as they watched Anna’s deftness and brightness, they began to ask whether they had been as proud of her as they ought to be.

“She’s got brains, that girl of ours,” said Selford, nodding his head complacently. “And a taking manner, don’t you think, Dick?” “Those hoys find her attractive,, or it looks like it, anyhow!” “Of course, she’s not exactly pretty, but I do think she’s rather distinguished somehow.”

“Your daughter would Leisure to be that, my dear Janet,” he remarked gallantly.

“No, I really think she’s more like you,” insisted Janet amiably. “I must make an effort” (Mrs Selford was fond of that phrase)' “and take her out into society more. I don’t think we’re quite giving her her chance.” “All, you’ve begun to think of matchmaking!” he cried in playful reproof. But it pleased him highly to think that he had. after alb an attractive daughter. -He took much moro notice of her than he had been used to take,,

and Mrs Selford ey<?s her with critical affection. Decidedly, the increase of human interest, as opposed to artistio and canine, was a good influence in the Selford household.

Anna soon saw how her position had improved. She,'was not demonstrative about it, but she appreciated it. She was also sharp enough to use it. The next time an'invitation to a party came she refused to go unless she might have a frock of her o.wn choosing. “I won’t go if I’m to look a guy!” sho said. There was a battle over that, a battle between her and Mrs Selford, and a tiff between father and mother to boot. For Selford was with' Anna now. They won the day, and Anna, with a cheque in her pocket, went off to consult Christine Fanshaw, nursing .in heir heart that joy which only the prospect of being dressed really just as you’d like to be dressed seems able to excite.

“Merely a malicious desire to cut- out the other girls,” commented Aleo loftily.

“I really don’t think yen efughtf fits talk about dress,” retorted eyeing the mustard suit. But when Anna appeared in tho frock which Christine had sedulously and lovingly planned, she carried all before her. She was most undoubtedly distinguished. “Wall, I suppose you’ve come to an age when that charming simplicity which used to suit you so well must givo way to something more stylish,” even Mrs Selford admitted, capitulating and marching out —but with the honours of war.

Grantley Imason was rich; yet £15,000 is a solid sum of money. To put that sum at John Fanshaw’s disposal had not caused him serious inconvenience, but it had entailed, a little contriving. To lay out another five thousand in Jeremy’s service would involve more contriving, and the return of the money rested, of necessity, in a distant and contingent future. Never the!ess, when Kate Raymore disregarded the injunction laid on lier, and suggested that the happiness of a life should be secured, he found the pro- * position attractive. He was a man lavish of money and appreciative of ajl the various pleasures of giving it away —both those of a more and! those of a less self-regarding order. He enjoyed both the delight of the recipient and the sense of his own generosity and his own power. He would like Jeremy to be indebted to him for the happiness of-, his life—of course, that was an exaggerated way of putting it, but it was a telling exaggeration. He also liked Jeremy very much for his own sake. And it would be altogether a thing to do—under present circumstances a peculiarly handsome thing. For Sibylla had left him and gone down to Milfdean, accompanied by the boy, without a word of friendship or-a hint of reconciliation; and Jeremy’s welfare was very dear to his sister. To help Jeremy, and thereby prepare for her tho pleasure of seeing Jeremy prosper,, to do this secretly, si, hvo it as a private merit and a liicl&sd claim, on her, was an idea which appealed strongly to Grantley. In his imaginings she was to discover what he had done in the future, but not ti‘l,l after then reconciliation. Would it not have an effect then? One -effect it was to have was, in plain words, to make Sibylla feel ashamed; but Grantley did not put it so simply or so nakedly as that —that would have bean to recognise the action as almost pure revenge. He b,l inked that side of if. and gave prominence to the other sides. But that side &as there among the rest-, and ho would suffer wrong at her hands with the more endurance the greater were the obligations she was under to him. His love for her amd hi® quarrel with her joined hands to urge him. Commanding Kate Raymore to respect his desire for secrecy, although, she had disregarded Jeremy’s, he undertook to consider the matter. But his mind was really made up; and since the thing was to bo clone, it should be done liberally and splendidly. He had lent liis money to Fanshaw, as Caylesham had surmised, with a very satisfactory pro spect of repayment; to Jeremy he was ready to lend it on no security, careless about repayment because he loved Sibylla and he cause ho had so grievous a quarrel against her- It was all a part of his- broad and consistent plan of conquering her by his unchanging patience, unchanging love, unchanging persistence in being just what he had always been to her from the beginning, however sore a trial lier unreasonableness and her vagaries might put him to. This generosity to Jeremy would be a fine example of his chosen attitude, a fine move in the strategy on which he had staked the ultimate success of his campaign against Sibylla“lf I decide to do it, I’ll tel-1 Sibylla myself, at my own time, and in my own way—remember that,” he said to Ivato Raymore. * " She had an idea that tilings .liad nof been going quite smoothly, and nodded , in- a wise fashion. She was picturing a pretty scene of sentiment when Grantley confessed his. generosity. Of tho real state of his mind she had no idea, -but her own conception of the ipase .was enough to ensure her silence. Grantley went 'to work quietly, say«

• ang nothing to Jeremy, approaching the i- working / partners . through Salford, learning what they thought of Jeremy, hot letting them suppose that the sum //• required wag lightly to be some by or •fyas considered a small one, making, r ; like a good main of business, the best {C bargain that he could for, the object of bis bounty. These negotiations took i . some day®, and during those days Jerenay’s heart lost something of it 9 buoy--ancVj though nothing of its courage. London was having its effect on his receptive mind—the crowd, the, stress, •-the push, the competition). Courage and /Z brains enough to rise byP Perhaps, but It not enough to rise by quickly. A walk about the street®, a look at the newspapers, the talk at the Metropolitan Radical; all taught him that. Wait Z' and work —wait and work! That was iri. • ly-hat tshoy oil cssicl"—and tiioy non© of them said that it was easy to lay your hands on five thousand pounds. gr ; The light of the truth began to glimr • mer through folds of -young •self-con-fidence. Jeremy grew sober; he was no & more so gay and so sure in talking ' with Eva Raymoro. He allowed himself to dwell less on that mythical return to Milldean with fame and riches. Now // and then, it must be confessed, he had •, to brace himself up lest his very cour- . ' age should falter. He contrived to keep it; but with it there cam©now a feeling new to Jeremy—a humility, a sense that he was. after all, as other ' men were, and neither by natural emdowment nor by any rare caprice of fortune to he Afferent from them or to find his life other than their®. He, too, was not above the need of a helping _ hand; for want of it he, too, might ■ . have to tread very long and very,dreary paths before be made much impression on the hill whi-ch he had set out to fe. climb bo gaily, and with so little provender for the journey. In, such a mood as this he was as incapable of expecting any sudden interposition of outside aid as of refusing it when it same. Be // would protest, he would declare that he must refuse, but refuse in the end. he could not. The fierce jealousy of his H independence was cooled by his new experience of the world. . • • Ho heard first of what was. being done from one of the partners down nt Romford. The matter was practically concluded, he was told ; in two years’ time he was to have the junior partnership, and tho share allotted to him at that date would be somewhat larger in consideration of the stipulated capital being paid immediately—it happened to be wanted for an-extension of the buildings. Jeremy threw over work for that day, and hurried hack to London to re fuso. But all the way ho was thinking of the incredible difference this benevolent interposition would make. He found Brantley in his study after •/lunch. The deed regulating the aJ> [ / rangements between the partners on tho one side and Jeremy and himself on tho other was before him. A look at v 'Jeremy’s face told him that Jeiemy knew. “I —I can’t take it, you know,” Jere- // my blurted out. “You can’t escape the obligations _Sibylla 'bos brought on you by marrying . me," smiled Brantley. • v “Of course, Sibylla’s been at you—- / told you she couldn’t bo happy unv- ' lees “Nothing of the kind. Sibylla knows • nothing about it; and, what’s more, efhe isn’t to know till I choose to tell her— till I choose, not you—that’s Z: part of the bargain, Jeremy.” jeremy sat down. Anxious to avoid > a formal talking-over of the matter, Brantley got up and lit a cigarette'. ‘Then why have you done it?” asked Jeremy. /A ; :. Grantley shrugged his shoulder®. .. “Of course, it’s the one thing in the -•>. world for me; but—but. I wanted to do it for myself, you know.” Brantley ’/•' still smiled on him, with a touch of ' ' mockery now. “Yes, well, I know I couldn’t.” He looked at Grantley in a ' puzzled way. “What makes it worse,” he' went on, “is that I’ve been doing '/• you an injusice in a land of way. I f knew you were always kind and—and jolly, but somehow I thought _you were ‘ . a follow who wouldn’t put himself out very much for anybody else.” “I’m not putting myself out. ;I like NZ it.” ' ,V “Planking down five thousand, and not knowing when you’ll get it back,, if - ever you do? If you like that for its ; own sake, it’s rather a rare taste.” “Now, dion’p jaw any more,” said -• Grantley, with friendly impatience, “I was just going to sign the deed when you came in—l should have done it by % now ; but I must have a witness, and I didn’t want to ring Thompson up from £> his dinner. -'We’ll'ring for him now.” “I’m not an ass,” ©aid Jeremy. . “I I ’ don’t, thinlc that because a man mai'a woman he’s bound to provide for ; ifer -familyr- or to likerthein, either.” ' “You grow.in .worldly wisdom.”' v “Yes, I fancy-I do. I know a bit more about myself/ too. I might have worked ten. y ears, and not got this money.” ' , “Oh, tbankamy Pve not ''-••workw ten yeai’s! or ten minute© either, for you!” His hack had been to Jeremy. He turned round now a® be ©aid slowly: “You may consider it a© a

thankoffering for my happiness with Sibylla.”,..• “And why isn’t ©he to know?” f T like it better that way for the present. I’m entitled to make that condition. ;■/

Jeremy went back to his defence of himself against himself-. “A week ago : —l’d have backed myself to make it somehow. But—well, one soon learns how devil Mi hard it, is to get wliat one want®. What a conceited young idiot you must have thought me when we used ta talk down at (Milldean t”

/ “You were always an excellent companion. Let’s ring for Thompson, and execute the deed,”

Jeremy could not refuse, and could not yet consent. Grantley stood smoking airily and looking at him with a whimsical ©mile. Then the door opened and the butler came in, unsmnmon©d. “Ah, the Fate© decide!” exclaimed Grantley, with a laugh. “Where’© a pen, Jeremy?” “For you, sirj” said Thompson holding out a salver with a letter on it. “Oh!” Grantley laid, down his pen, took the letter, and sat down at the writing table. “Wait a minute; I want you to witness something for me,” b e said to the butler. " •<; Thompson stood in serene immobility. TB.a thoughts were far away, engrossed in a discussion he had been having with the groom as to the “form” of that same horse, of Cayl&sham’s about which Mrs Bolton had wanted to know. Jeremy, sat making up his mind to endure being helped, and poignantly remorseful about the view he had taken of Grantley. The view was earnestly disclaimed now; the help seemed very fine and wonderful. He did so want hope, scope, a chance, a . start, and that all his talk of what he would do should not come to naught. In turn Lora, Eva, and Anna passed through hi© mind, each _ bringing her own influence to bear, giving him a new picture of the future. And why refuse? If ever a gift had been freely, 'grandly' offered this was. Would it not be even churlish to refuse? Reasons or no reasons, his heart and his hand went out instinctively; he could not refuse the beginning of all things. Giving his iiead a restless littie jerk as at last he accepted this decision, ho chanced to turn his eyes on Grantley’s face. Thier attention was caught and arrested ’by it. There was something strange there. The cheeks were rather pale, the jaw set rigidly: Grant© ley read his letter with a curious engrossment—not hurriedly, nor offhand, as a man generally reads when, other business is at a standstill, till- he reaches the end. He turned back, it seemed, once or twice, to look at another sentence again. Jeremy could not stop staring at him. Even Thompson awoko to tJio fact tk&t 110 w&s facing kept waiting a long while, and that the groom would probably finish the beer and go away, leaving their important discussion unfinished and the proper odds unascertained. • Grantley had recognised Christine Fanshaw’s large irregular handwriting, and had expected nothing more serious than an invitation to dinner. (But he was not reading an invitation to dinner now.

“I have just heard from Sibylla—from Milldean. She encloses a letter for you, which she filays I ain to send on to you to-morrow. She insists that lam not to send it before; and if I won’t do as she asks, I am to burn it. You are not to have it to-day. I cannot disobey her in this ; but she says nothing about my telling you she has sent a letter; the only tiling is that I must not deliver it to you till to-morrow. I had no idea you had let her down to Milldean alone. How could you let her do this? There is one other tiling I must say to you. Walter Blake was to have dined here to-night. This morning he wired cGcuses, saying he was going for a cruise in his yacht. You must, consider what that means. I beg you not to wait for the letter, but to go to Milldean this afternoon. Say nothing of having heard from me. Just go as if it was by accident; say you got your work done sooner than you expected, or anything you like; but-go. I believe you’ll be sorry all your life if you don’t go. Let nothing stop you, for your own sake, and still more for hers.—O.F.”

That was the letter; the sentence he had turned back to- re-read wa® the one in which Walter Blake’© movements were mentioned. Grantley looked across to Jeremy. “Have you heard from Sibylla since she went to Milldean ?” he asked. “Not a line. But she doesn’t write much to me.”

Again Grantley looked at the paper. Then lie laid it down and took up his pen* , “Now for the deed,” he ©aid, and drew it to him. .

He signed. Thompson fulfilled, the formality for which he wasrequired, and then left them alone. Jeremy did not break, out into new thanks. That unexplained something in- /Brantley’s face forbade him. “I can only say that I’ll try to justify your extraordinary kindness,” he said soberly.

Grantley nodded absently, as he rose and put Christine’s letter into the fire. It was better there—and there was no danger that he would forget the content®.

“1 say, there’s no bad news, is there?” Jeremy could not help asking. “(No news at all, good or bad,” answered Grantley, as he held out his hand. “Good-bye and good duck, J eremy.” Jeremy took his hand and gripped it hard, emotion finding a vent that way. Grantley returned the pressure more moderately.

“Remember, under no circumstances, a word about it to- Sibylla!” he said. “I give you my honour.”

“Good.”

He released Jeremy’s hand and turned away. He had much self-control hut he could not be sure of what was showing on bis face. Jeremy had his great good-fortune, but his joy was dashed. Grantley looked like a man whom heavy calamity finds unprepared.

“All the finer of him to sign the deed then and there. Jeremy muttered as he left the house. “Whatever has happened, he didn’t forget his word to me.” But it had not been of Jeremy or of his . word that Grantley had been thinking whim he signed. His signature was a definuce of his wife and of hi® fate.