HIS OWN ENENMY.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1676, 13 April 1904, Page 5

HIS OWN ENENMY.

BY MARY CROSS. Author of “Under Sentence,” “A Woman’s Victory,” “False Witness,” “A Dark Deceiver,” etc.

CHAPTER 11. (Continued.') , When Stephen comes in from the hay there is a change. He is surprised, puzzled, looks over the magazine to iconounce my story “dnlt,” hut nods approval of the endeavour. Lots of money can be made by writing in these days, he astutely declares, and the sooner I am able to earn something the better. As usual, his word is law. ‘Grandmother groans in spirit, as well as audibly, but she leaves me and my pear pen unmolested, for which great good I can forgive much. Stephen has grown into a rather grasping, close-fisted young man. his natural tendency to domineer not being lessened by grandmother’s training. She has gratified and has taught him to gratify his own every desire, and she is very proud of him. He can drive a satisfactory bargain with any man. His temper only declares itself when he has had too many friendly glasses which sometimes dees; happen, and then he is inclined to be violent ; fortunately he never drinks at his own expense; and others are not always willing to treat him. He considers me “worth my salt,” though he laughs at what he calls my lady ways, and is kinder than he used to be. As he approves of my writing, I am left in peace to enlarge my sphere of action. The demands on my pen increasing show me that my work is valued and appreciated elsewhere. My favourite editor, Air Eric Harden, whese name is m most of the periodicals, and whose portrait I have seen in the “Graphic” displayed in a Monifields bookshop, encourages me to greater efforts. It is hard for me to realise that so distinguished a person troubles himself about nay insignificant, seif. He writes a beautifully clear, fine hand above an elaborate signature, criticising me at times severely, but always with justice, and I feel put “on my mettle” by him, anxious to surprise him, eager to do better work, worthier of approval, work that shall compel his praise, feelings I entirely forgot when actually writing, so potent is the spell of fancy. Out of dreamland grandmother often calls me. As the claims on my pen increase and multiply so do my household duties. Grandmother will not oppose .Stephen by f orbidding me to write, but she tries to save me from destruction ana snares of darkness by giving me more occupation of an uncongenial kind. At ''icr time of life, she justly enough says, she cannot be expected to look after everything. Youth and health, of course, must pay some penalty. I try earlier rising and later reading, but .still feel baffled still long for the loveliness 01 unattainable leisure wherein to perfect my one talent, and upon the burning desire to escape from this house, to l turn my back upon all that jars and frets, 1 set a remorseless foot. The law of my life is submission and endurance, and I do not seek to escape it, endeavouring to teach myself contentment; and my days go on and on, until there comes a silver-crested wave upon the grey tide of time. To my astonishment I receive & letter from Lilian Quenton now. Lady Lorimer. inviting ane to a renewal of our former acquaintance, and the delights of a visit to Kiltartan. Every line of her letter recalls the merry, bright-eyed girl who.danced her way into my heart, and Whose happiness consisted in promoting the happiness of others: evidently she has not changed in that. Wo 'have not corresponded ; once a pretty Christmas card oanne to remind me of her existence, but I . know that Mrs Quenton has never regarded me as a desirable acquaintance for ner 'daughters. Now, however, Li! is her own mistress and she invites me “to kinder sides where gentler manners reign,” and pays me a pretty compliment about my writing. Oh, ff it could he! If I might hate this brief glimpse into the fairer world! If I might so happaly get such fresh and dainty food for this hungry mind of mine! To me Lil’s letter is like a breath from fairy meadows, “stealing and giving” fragrance. - Grandmother reads it as if it were a sermon full of unsold £ doctrine.

“You do not wish to go,” she says, assorting not questioning. “Yes, I do. I should like to see them again. I should like to see Kiltartan.” Grandmother looks to that heaven which seems always watching an opportunity to send down trials, afflictions, and judgments.

“Most girls,” she say®, “are grateful for a good home and Christian training, bub you are always wanting something else. Take your Bible and read what came to the Israelites for their murmuring and discontent, and ask yourself uf you are like to be rewarded for w'~ V they were punished for, and ask for a better spirit. You may send that letter back to Lady Lorimer, and let her take that for an answer f o her tempting you from the path of duty.” This latter injunction I do not obe . I cannot bring myself to refuse Lil’s invitation at once, and so T decide to leave tar totter unanswered lor the time being. And when I read about the Israelites it is to find comfort in that, after ah, they reached the Promised Land; so it j

may be with me. 'Stephen is very angry about Lady Lorimor’s letter and says some bitter things about her. only remembering me when my writing ri making a. stir, to which grandmother responds that she always knew no good could come of it, and that my fine friends will be the ruin of me .yet. Will this prophecy be fulfilled? It is evening. I stand at the garden gate watching the distant hamlet spring into sudden life through the gleaming as its cottages are lighted, tho-shadows deepening over glen and moor and wood and the distant tower of Bene tar, on which a flag lazily folding and unfolding itself in its elemental blue indicates that Lord Wyniard is at home. He seldom favours nisi 'ancestral dwelling with his presence and .his name serves as <a text for country-side discourses on the wickedness of tho classes. It is rumoured that he is about to be married, and has come down to set ids house in order for this purpose. The tower defines itself against a sky of pallid blue in which purple shreds of go,l den-edged clouds are floating. “The breeze blows spit from latemown meadows.” and ever and anon the low delicious notes of a late thrush tremble through the stillness, until the peace of the hour is brought to an end for me

“Come away, Violet, a,t once. Yh.u would stand there till manning if you had your own way, cries .mother f rom the open door, and I -tart out of a dream, and go in on a murmur.ng -str -p of rebuke to the roam where Stephen*, balancing accounts. Her c! eel anatom, disturbs his calculations' and he looks up crossly. “Instead of making so much noise about, byegones” he says, “you'd better sec that the doors arc rightly fastened and all the windows smbbed, for tb re's, more money m this house to-night than I’d care to lose.”

“You shouldn’t keep money in the house,” Mrs Greig tartly tolls him. “I had no time to go to Monifields until I would have been too late for the bank,” he retorts. “Violet can pay it m foi me to-morrow. 1 Lave to go to Rowan’s, and a walk from that won't do her any harm.” “I shall be glad of the chance of thinking out my next story,” I tell him, as he glances at me.

“You’d best not let your head run on such nonsense when you’ve money to take cure of,” says grandmother. “Aeh, let her alone; she never does rignt with your way of it,” interposes Stephen, in unwonted defence of me, for which I am grateful, and devote myself to the pile of darning to. which Mrs Greig’is forefinger silently directs my attention, and the evening slowly passes. Morning comes, opening a day on which my life reaches a crisis; but how momentous and how affecting the lives of others I. of conus- ~ra ; ot ' vesee I s hours go by in the usual routine until noon is reached, and ! am voady to do Stephen’s errand. We drive part of the way together as he is starting at the same time for Rowan’s farm. He asks me as we pass out of the village if I have read in a certain paper what a large sum Air Harden got for his latest book, adding that it’s time I showed something like it. “I only wish I could.” I tell him. and he looks at me rather sharply. “You wouldn’t know what to do with so much money,” he tolls me. “I think l should spend it in travelling, Stephen.” “Ay! that’s your father oil over "H’s a pity lie didn't leave vou sometrrmg besides his wandering spirit.” “He left an honoured name,” I remind my cousin, and after this is silence, until wo arrive at crossroads, the one leading upwards to Rowan’s farm, the other winding away to Monifields. Here he draws rein, and as I alight gives the canvas money-bag into my keeping. “See that you get a receipt for it,” he tells me.

“Of course,” I reply, and then, mindful that a good deal of drinking goes on among the wild young tenants of Rowan’s farm, and, appealingly: “Don’t be late in coming home, Stephen, will you? You know how it worries grandmother, and she has not been well this week.”

“Whose business are you minding?'’ 1 he demands, roughly. “What you have to do is watch that money, and leave mg to take care of myself.” With which he drives elf and goes on along the lane, undulating between high green banks, beyond which Atretoh fair pastures .and ripening grain, my thoughts turning to Lilian Quenbon, and something seeming to ask me why I should return to the hard monotony of Stanekirk, why I should not go on into that world where surely work for willing hands is to be found; but I resist this as a temptation of selfishness, and give my mind to the new story which is developing itself, and which I mean shall overtop all previous efforts. Out of Imagination’s realm I am called by a startling fact. Two . men creep through a gap in the hedge, and block my way. Their very appearance is terrifying. without their threatening looks and attitude, and I realise the remoteness of human habitation and help, the loneliness of the place, - my heart giving a sickening hound. Before I can decide what to do, almost as soon as X have seen them, indeed, one of the fellows seizes me, pressing hisi'hoind ever my mouth. My wnst is yiolently twisted, a ruffianly blow on the temple sends me reeling into the hedge, the whole world seema -!i a rouad. whilling me into darkness and oblivion. I come back to oon*

nc&ousnesa with a ]ong',~gasping 'sliudder, jickened by the-pain. ojt my wrist and the du3;l aching of’ my head, and I stare into a sky, throbbing'with its, own blightness, wondering what, has happened, thinking for a moment that I have been thrown out of Stephen’s machine, hut memory, takes up the thread, and I know all toe/ quiokly what has happened. The money, Stephen’s dearly loved money, entrusted to my care is gone. I 'have been robbed. I get up and look about me; there is no trace left of the men. They, are gone; but whither and how long it is impossible for me to surmise. ■ '

What am Itodo ? How am Ito mend this? I hardly know which I should fear most, Stephen or grandmother; and what shape will their anger take? I can only pray, I can only faintly gasp out an appje|al' for help, not because I fancy any wonder, will be wrought and the money be miraculously restored, but because I cannot doubt that there is One able and .willing to help me in some way to at least strengthen me in endurance. I do not think of running away, and thereby escaping inevitable punish but -as I look towards home, involuntary tears start under my eyelid®, and a dreadful premonition of ill overweighs me. Then I start in new terror at theof a leisurely approaching step, and my heart thuds again; cold dew gathers on my forehead, my limbs tremble. This time, however, I have no cause for alarm. There comes in sight the figure of a

man, young, good-looking and I have time to wond'er in a vague way if he be Lord iWyniard or one of the many strangers summer brings to Monifields before his eyes fall on me and he comes to a standstill. He surveys me with eyes that look from a face as full of kindliness as of strength and courage. “My poor girl, what is the matter ? What has happened you ?” he asks. His voice is sweet and low, an excellent thing in woman, and having a peculiar charm in man.

A very few sentences sufficed to make him understand my misfortune. “Wretches!” his brown hand tightening on the stick he carries. “Which way did they go? Have I any chance of over-taking them P” ' He looks over the hedge as he asks, evidently eager for the chase. He is so tall and -straight that he needs only to plant a foot oil the sloping hank to see clean and clear across the rustling fields. “It seems to have happened ai long time ago,” I tell him faintly; “but I don’t know —I amstupid yet.” He takes out his watch, telling me the time promptly, and a little reflection shows me that I must have been unconscious about half an hour.

“That is too good a start,” lie says, “and they will have made-all possible use of the time to get out of the place. I

should say they had seen your cousin give you the bag atnd have been dogging you ever since. The best thing you can do norvv is to go home, describe the fellows, and have the police put on their track at once. They deserve more than they will probably get for striking a girl.” ' . Whilst he is speaking, he dips his handkerchief into the tiny brook glittering among nettles and weeds, tying it round my wrist witb the air of one, accustomed and always ready to help. 'That will relieve, you a little, he tells me, and again advises me to go home. Then, as if he understands my hesitation, adds, his words indicating a clearer sense of justice than I _ have hitherto met with: “Surely they will not he angry with you for a misfortune. They should rather blame themselves for hawing allowed a young girl to go alone and •unprotected an errand that is not always safe for a man.” “It is not the .first time I have been. Stephen trusts me where,, he could not trust a servant, and I am sure he newer foresaw any danger,” I reply, and try to resign myself to the unknown worst.; “Shall I help you by going with you ?” he asksl “I will very gladly do so if you think that would do any good.” “I am tafraid it would not,” I reply, colouring at the thought of grandmother’s comments and questions. ‘Well, you will allow me to see you within sight of home, and so far safe,” he says, and I gather myself together, still feeling strange and giddy. We walk on silently, I wondering what will he done to me, and nerving myself for grandmother’s invective. When look at the handsome, high-bred face beside me I see that it is downcast and dejected, and I surmise that I am not alone in trouble. He walks at the slow

rate of a man in deep and painful Thought, and more than once he sighs. By degrees we reach the bend in the road whence the grim, grey house can be seen frowning through spreading trees, and I feel that my every step has been over the dearest hopes and dreams of my life back to a prison, certainly to punishment which surely is unmerited. I halt, and -my companion looks at me, his glance now expressive only of solicitude on my behalf, and I endeavour to faltea’ forth my thanks “Never mind that,” he says. “I only wish I had been in time to prevent the - assault. Don’t let your courage or patience fail; often when we face a trouble bravely it runs away froan us; often it is only good fortune in disguise." I hope you may find it so 1”

He leaves . me, ancl with “a sudden sense of stars blown out,” I go on to my home. Grandmother is in the garden gathering berries under the shade of a

black hat with white flowers, which to my melancholy imagination resembles a coffin lid with “immortelle®.” Hearing my footsteps she turns round, and awaits me, surprised. “What has brought you back?” she demands. “You can’t have been to Momiiiedds already.” “Grandmother, I have been robbed.” “Robbed of what? Not of Stent on’ money?” she cries; and I tell her a® briefly as possible of the attack upon me. She stares at me fixedly, without a gleam of pity in the cold depths of her eyes, making a hard white line of her lips as she listens. “Do you expect me to believe that?” she demands, in a tone that brings all my colour hack in a painful, burning tide.

“It is the truth, grandmother,” is my only answer, and she stands still, staring at me for several minutes before she speaks again. Then she wave® me towards the house, and when we have reached the porch she halts and bends her sternest frown upon me. “Tell me every hit of it again,” she says. “Were you speaking to the men? Did you ask them a short cut to the town or let them know your message?” I can only answer her questions with a reiteration of what has occurred, feeling that her desire is to catch me contradicting myself in some way. Having only truth to tell, I suppose I do not, but all the same she says in the former iron tone:

“I don’t believe a word you have said; I can read your heart asi if it lay hare before me and I know that you have hidden that money for some sinful purpose of your own. Are you not afraid that God will strike you dead?” “Not if Ho really does see and know everything.” She takes me by the shoulder, and so leads me iuto the best parlour, which smells as all seldom-used rooms do ._pme.ll, and is associated in my mind with dreary, sunless Sabbaths. The cold, hard, slippery haircloth suite seems a part of grandmother’s religion; thin netted curtain® dangle at the window with a kind of hopeless resignation; and profane volumes hide themselves behind a veil of green calico across the book case.

“I know your faults,” grandmother tells me: 'hut still I cannot quite believe that you will rob the people whose bread you have eaten so many thankless years, after all. Give up the money, and I will try to forgive you. You baxl better confess to me, for you know what Stephen is when he is angry.”

“But, indeed, I have told’ you the truth,” I return, tears blinding me. “Why will you not believe me? Why do you think me a thief and a liar? You have niether right nor cause to do that.” Ti You have not, scrupled to steal time from me, Violet; and when people can so easily write lies they won’t find it hard to speak , them. It wilil- he better to leave off trying to impose on me with such a tale/’ I cannot answer her. I sit down, resting my aching head on my hands, faint and sick and wretched.

“Well may you hide your face!” <he says. “Tray that you may overcome, the evil of your heart before it is too late.” She goes out, leaving me to wonder, in -a vague, uninterested way, what will be done with me. Will they deprive me of my pen, and crush out every spark of fancy, and reduce mo to the level of the humblest household drudge ? Will they send me to prison ? Into what ne.w form of endurance will life resolve itself ? I look idly at my throbbing wrist-, and think of the stranger who believe® me where my -own will not, who uttered the first words of encouragement. .a,nd kindness that have gladdened my ears for many and many a day. Surely Stephen, too will believe me; surely my vindication will come! Time trickles away, •but I have ceased to take note of it. I hardly know whether my thoughts have wandered—'back. I think, to childish days and vanished mother-love —-when, grandmother returns, looking harder and sterner than ever, and lays before me a Bible open at the story of Ananias and Sapphira, tapping her forefinger on the page.

“I have read it before,” I tell her, -listlessly, “.and it doe® not concern me now.”

“Wicked, shameless girl! Truljr, anything sacred does not concern you! Tell me where the money is or I will not stand between you and Stephen, and you will find an angry man hard to deal with. Have you the heart to rob him of the money he has wrought so hard for? Do you expect him to believe you?” “I wish that you would, grandmother,” I reply, ‘because you are helping the thieves by your doubt. Every moment takes them farther .away. Will you not send for Stephen, and let him decide what should be don 1 ©?” “I w ill send for .a policeman and have you searched,” she says, angrily. “Stephen will come home soon enough for you, I expect, unless you tell me the truth; and then, though you don’t deserve it-, I will not let him know.” “I have told you the -truth,” I repeat. „ „ , “This is your last chance,” she says, but I do not reply. She again leaves me, locking the door behind her, and I reTapiso into my former attitude, awaiting Stephen’s return. CHAPTER 111. It is evening, golden and grey, with flood of sunset glory (streaming into the

room before lam again disturbed; this timo hy Janet, one of the maid®, entering with a tray of tea and bread, and my very being rises in revolt against the cruelty, the injustice, the degradation of the treatment I am receiving. As quietly .as I can I hid the girl remove the tray.

'“Oh, take your tea, Miss Violet,” says Janet-, soothingly, “ and never heed her flyting. She’ll get cool in. the skin she’s hot in.”

But I feel ae if the smallest fragment, will choke me; better to beg, better to starve, than submit to this! Oh, if I could hut repay the stolen money, and let it he the price of my freedom, let me thereby purchase the right to live my own life, to possess my own soul, bidding a long farewell to the subtle, systematic, though perhaps unconscious, cruelty that so loner has b lighted me 1

I drag out my shabby puree, rubbed almost into holes at its corners, counting its contents, the all of my literary earnings net paid into grandmother’® hands “for my salt.”

Pitifully email it is compared with the sum lost, and. I smile, then weep at my own impotence, tears increasing the agonising pain i,n my temples. Sick at soul I lay my head on my arms, wondering how Stephen will deal with me. My suspense is prolonged. It is growing late, the corners of the room are quite dark, and a lonely star has trembled through the sky. Still he is not here.

I do not know if it be from sleep or from a recurrence of that strange stupor that I am at length aroused by the .vattle of wheels; Stephen has come. I listen with my heart in my ears. Hi® raised thickened voice and shuffling ste-ps tell me that he has come home intoxicated. I hear him ask for me. I hear grandmother’s voice in a subdued murmur, and then a frightful oath from him. Next moment lie bursts the door open, admitting from the hall -a flood of light that enables him to see me, as I stand awaiting my fate. He stands on the threshold only a moment, in the next has grasped my arm with one strong hand, shaking the other menacingly in my face.

“So this is what you meant with your talk about travels, you lying thief!” he stays, like one choking. “Give up that money at once or you’ll he sorry for'it all your daysl” “Stephen, I was robbed of it. Will you not bear me? I have never told an untruth in my life.” “How do I know that ? How is it that this has never happened before?” he demanded, roughly, the latter question being unanswerable. “I will do all I can to help the recovery of the money,” I assure him. “I can .describe the men — 1 —” “I daresay you can,” he interrupts; “you can make up lies to suit you, never fear, but they won’t go down with me. I’d shake the life from you if I thought it would shake the truth from you too,” he adds, his fury increasing, his brutal grasp tightening, and we stare at each other silently for a moment or two. Then he drags me from the room through the hall and opens wide the outer door. I could nob if I would resist him.

“Seo here, now,” he says, “this is your last chance. I asik you for the last time, will you give up that money or say what you did with it?”

I do not reply. 1 see as in a glass darkly the old sanded hall, the tall clock, the frightened fao&s of the maids peeping from the kitchen doorway, even grandmother looking uneasy, and then I am thrust outside, the door is shut, the bolt and key grate harslhy, and I stand alone in the darkness and solitude, cast out as a thief, overwhelmed with horror and shame and indignation. My ©very pulse hounds. I look long at; the grim old house, a which I shall never j again enter; the brutality of the treatment given me now is the final straw. I turn slowly away, cross the tangled grass, open and shut the low gate, leaving oill behind me. What I am to do I know not; there- is no one from whom I would ask Shelter at a more reasonable hour, no one to whom I would wish to tell my story. What consolation is breathed from the vast and silent night? What rises within mo triumphant over all dismay? I cannot tell, but my heart uplifts itself as I turn my face to the sky wherein the

broad and burning moon reveals her world of living light, shining on me. friendless, homeless, outcast; but, thank God, free!

IN cedi ess to say, my exultation is short-lived, and dying, leaves me lyeak and weary, with shaking limbs and a heavy heart, no course of action clear. One idea alone is plain, and that to get as far away as possible from Stanekirk in as short a space of time as 1 can. My greatest dread is of being pursued and taken hack, which is net to be thought of calmly, after the indignities of tonight. This fear and seme vague gleam of the golden possibilities of change darting across my brain, give me strength to hasten on, my goal in the meantime being Monifields, though what I am to do there I do not think. I seem ircap-■-.Die o(t loaning aw. <aa lqncl by compuioion take short viqws.

I leave the grim old house and its precincts and traverse the silent lanes, cool silence pervading them. 1 pass quietly through the sleeping hamlet, its every window dark, not even a wakeful dog to bark at me, hearing only the plaintive call of sheep or the light echo o! my own step on the rough uneven stone®. There might be no one living save myself. I reach the long winding lanes haunted by palpitating shadows, human abodes becoming less arid less frequent, tlie sense of solitude deepening a® I drag myself onward towards the ever receding horizon. I shall never forgot that walk the strange rustlings and stirrings in. the hedgerows, the sigh of the wind across the grain, the gleam of distant water, metal-bright; the fantastic shapes the trees resolve themselves into, the bleak stretch of the moors, the fear ful backward glances I oast, the halts for rest I reluctantly take; all these wute themselves indelibly on my mind. Gradually the trees thicken. From close clusters they change to unbroken woods rising higher and higher as the road ascends. I hear the splash of water falling from the rocks, and honeysuckle flings up its fragrant flower®. In, all my journey I have met hut one living thing, and that a man,.possibly a harvester, in any case a, wayfarer, plodding heavily on with staff and bundle. He may bo harmless enough, but I have come to be afraid of my kind, and I dart in among the woods to avoid any encounter, scrambling over briar and bracken, groping as best I may through the obscurity, and only pausing to gain breath when a good distance lies between me and the high road. Here I feel safer; there are not even cart-ruts to remind me of the possibility of pursuit, and the air is laden with the scent -of wild-wood thing®. Each step^treads forth new fragrance ; I brush against odorous bushes and branches dimly seen. My strength, however, is failing, my brain growing more and more dizzy, and I know that I must yield to fatigue, that it will be impossible for me to go much farther to-night. Frinting flesh overpowers the anxious, eager spirit. All I know of my whereabouts is that I am in the woods of Benotar, and Monifields is yet-far away. I must rest as best I can until daylight, and then, refreshed and invigorated, resume my strange journey, travelling to what bourne?

. I have been groprng feebly through a miniature jungle of elder and hawthorn, when I seem all at once to find myself in a little clear space, and the moonlight is lying in a white flood on a pathway winding before me to a narrow iron gate, which stands half open between two grey pilasters ivy-covered. Beyond this gate, 1 see dark shrubs, long slopes of lawn, beds of flowers, one side of tbe castle itsell, all bathed in the magic of moonlight, and looking like some enchanted, region where only knights and princesses and fairies may dwell. A sense of security comes on me, and in a moment I decide that here shall be my restingplace, that here I may stay unseen and unsought, finding protection in the knowledge that I aim near humankind. I enter cautiously, treading on grassy borders that muffle my steps. My dress brushes against heavily fragrant flowers, my hands touch roses wet with night's dew. Dark and slumberous lies the great old house, the black shadow of its tall tower falling straight across a broold gravelled space in front with a sun-dial in the centre. As I draw nearer I see a light; there is a subdued glow behind two windows overlooking a lawn divided by a narrow path; one is open, for the

night is warm, but no sound comes from it, and all else is in darkness. I find myself beside .a 'quaint -little summerhouse, a mass of creepers and. sweetbriar, and I go in, stretching my stiffened limbs on the narrow seat, almost worn out. I am too exhausted,to sleep, but I fall into a kind' of wakeful doze through which I vaguely hear sounds few and far between, distant chimings, rustling and waving of trees, or the hasty passage of some wandering wind. All at once I am wide awake. I do not know what has called every sense into abnormal activity- but my heart throbs, my pulses leap, a hot current of startled blood rushes to my temples, and trembling I leave my shelter. - Over all things now has fallen night’s: intensest silence, "• deadly calm, a solemn hush, that I . feel will bo broken in some strange way , and so stand, .with strained ears and clasped hands, waiting for that sound. It comes; the sound of a footstep on tho gravel, and as my eyes turn in its direction I see the figure of a man in the act of. stepping from the open window I had and which, lighted then, is now dark. He looses from side to side, then darts swiftly on to the grass, and as lie comes towards me I sink behind a rosebush, holding my breath, all the stories I have heard of Lord Wyniard’s mad escapades rushing into my mind: though never having seen him tef my knowledge, I cannot say if this be he. Tho commonplace explanation of burglary does not occur to me, possibly because the man is in evening dress, half-hidden by a long cloak. He is now so near me that I could almost touch him if I wished. He carries a soft felt hat crushed in-one hand, the other being thrust into his breast., • I see his face distinctly it is ghastly, and seems to tshino like ice. from a mass of jet-black hair, and his dense brows are drawn together over dilated eyeballs; his lips are twitciting strangely. Such expressions as conflict in his countenance I have never seen before and cannot describe. He halts once, looking back at the house in a slow, strange, reluctant way, starts at the sigh of the wind, then drags his hat over his brows, crosses with a few rapid steps from the moon-lighted path to the dark shrubbery which seems to swallow him up; and once more I am alone, trembling until my teeth chatter. Ho has come and gone so quickly, there has been something so unearthly in his aspect, a ghastliness that could scarce belong to life, that-1 feel as if some evil spirit-, nay, tho enemy of mankind himself, has passed me, and I am conscious of a thrilling awe and horror, then am not conscious cf anything at all. It may be that insensibility passes into sleep; but all 1 really know is that a long time elapses ere my eyes unclose, and I fiiid myself lying stiff and cramped among the shrubs. There is now that darkness and chilliness which co-me© before dawn, and the strange, mysterious melancholy of the hour weights upon my already burdened spirit. 1 raise myself with difficulty, looking about me at the glimmering scene. It seems years since I have left home, and as my mind retraces recent events, the apparition of last night again presents itself through a haze of confused images. I cannot be sure whether it also is not a part of imagination or of dreams; I cannot be sure that I really have seen a bodily presence, but I am certain of one thing, that howsoever and wheresoever I may see that face again I shall know it. An evil shadow seems to have been cast by it upon all things, and upon me. It seems to me impossible to rise and face another journey. I fancy that perhaps I shall die here, that all my Uses are fulfilled, my little part in life played -out, and it does net seem to much matter. But soon takes place a miracle. “Over the spangled grass ©weep the swift footsteps of the lovely light/’ the sun ascends triumphant, hailed by a chorus of, birds, the lark springs upward, the flowers unfold, the beauty of anew bright day begins. I am not one who finds fault with Nature that she remains sunny and. smiling though human hearts ■break ; I rather find consolation in that whatsoever loss and pain be ours there is one unfailing loveliness even on eaiffh. Scant would be the sunshine did it cloud for every human woe ! Something in me revives with the dawn, my depression melts away like the last grey clouds of night that fly before the sun, and the warin golden light animates me. -1 rise and look about me, trying to take a practical view o*f my position, and to carry myself in thought a little farther on. I count again the contents of my purse, which yesterday seemed so meagre and small, which to-day mean fortune, since they will take me to Glasgow, on which city I fix as my ultimate destination, possibly because of my early associations with it. Therein my mother was able to find a livelihood, therein her ashes rest, therein the first and the happiest days of my life were passed. I remember nothing of the city itself, but I know that both work and wealth are there and that I shall have some share of the one if not cf the other. Though Lady Lorimer has named Glasgow as our rendezvous in "‘ that kind invitation of here, I ’do not dream of seeking her under circumstances’, so altered. Having .decided on- Glasgow as my goal y.I do not look beyond, but direct my energies,, such as they are to getting there with as little delay as possible. 1 have pot yet. considered what I shad do on arriving at this given point-; sufficient for the day is the care thereof, and one must trust to providential

guidance. I regard the discomforts and perils of the night- as so many obstacles overcome,, and in my heart is -a sensation such as may have thrilled my father’s, forcing his way through the ice barriers -of the Arctic world. 1 look a farewell to the great silent house, asleep with all its blinds drawn, and to the sun-flooded garden, and resume my journey along the already healed high-road. Far above larks are singing, bees and birds are awake and alert, and the young day’s influence is invigorating. By-and-by brown labourers and women in cavernous •sun-bonnets begin to appear in the fields, and. thepvorld of work is waking. I pass a farm, with a rosy, substantial woman bustling about the byre, -and she gives me a draught of milk, looking at me with a not unjustifiable curiosity, and remarking that I must have travelled far. Refreshed, I think of my appearance, and brush off as well as I can the stains, of earth and grass upon my dress, straighten tho bent brim of my hat, and smooth my -hair, before resuming my journey.

I plod stolidly on, at length coming in sight-of the -sea. The road goes straight by the shore, with its boats and nets and black tarry sheds and drifted heaps of seaweed. The pier -stretches a dark length into the sparkling water, and a steamer is already churning up foam. Soon I am in the -streets cf the clean -old burgh itself, still half asleep, with its shuttered shops and closed houses; but some few people are astir, and I inquire my way to the police office, having a •duty there to fulfil. ’ I tell to an impassive official the sitory of yesterday’s assault, and give as clear a description as I can of my assailants. It is put into writing, ana I am asked to read it over and say if it is correct. I reply that it is, and then am asked if I know the numbers of the notes, and the amount of gold and silver; hut this is information I cannot give. It is, however, probable that my practical and business-like cousin will have all these details, and so I refer the authorities to him.

“Very well, Miss Grant. We will send out to the farm at once, and see what we can do. Good morning.” And thus I am dismissed. I have done all that can to help the recovery of Stephen’s money, and must leave the rest to him I find myself next studying a timetable at the station, which at this early hour is quiet.* Tire journey to Glasgow occupies nearly five hours, and I should arrive there about noon, which is better than night. I buy my ticket, and trying to ignore the pang which seizes me when I behold the gap its purchase- makes in my little store, get into a compartment, not wishing to run the -chance of being seen by any who may lcn-ow me, and wait tho start, which, to my relief, is -goon made.

Fortunately I .have the carriage to myself, and so can lie on the seat, succumbing to langour and mental and physical fatigue. The motion of the train, the shriek cf the engine, are all so many tortures. When I raise myself the rotatory movement of fields and hills and villages adds to my suffering. Consecutive thought is fast becoming an impossibility. and I feel that some- illness the natural result of all my excitement anxiety and exposure, is coming on me The journey might -occupy five days instead of as many hours, so exhausting do I find it. Gradually the skies darken, and we seem all at once in an environment of dense -smoke, clanging hammers, and blazing furnaces; and then in all the confusion -and roar of a terminus; the mingling noises, shouts, roll or wheels along the platform, the shriek of escaping steam, turn the -dull aching of my head into an acute agony. Stupefied. I get out, and stand staring at the strange faces, at the towers o-f luggage whirled along, at the alert porters, the shouting newsboys with a woeful sinking of tho heart. Still, I must battle alike with sickness and with fear, die inch hy inch if die I must. In the hepe that the air will revive me, I make my way out, and stand on the station steps, looking at rattling cars and an ever-moving throng, at tall buildings blotting out the sky, and I wonder what is to become o-f me a stranger, friendless and. next to penniless, ignorant of much, and rapidly becoming physically incapable. I don’t know where to go; simple words they look when written, but taken as literal fact and with all my unhappy circumstances, -they are not without the element of tragedy. As I stand, my heart raising itself in an agonised appeal to the only One who can help me, a lady slowly comes out of the station, and pauses a moment on the steps beside me. I look at her. naturally ; then; “is it trick of glance, turn of head," or what, that strikes a chord in my memory and brings her name involuntarily to my lips? She turns quickly surveying me with bright brown eyes, questioning and keen. “Yes, that is my name,” she ©avs ; “at least, it was'. I am Lilian Lorimer now. Do you know me ?” I draw back, shrinking f rom her: the last thing I want is that she should recognise me. hut she is as quick-witted as she ever was and puts her hand lightly on my arm, looking more closely at me. An expression half-startled, half-puzzled crosses her face, and then the sunniest of smiles. “Yes, of course it is,” she says; “my memory is every bit as good as yours, Violet. But what in th% world is the matter? You look wretchedly ill. I have been expecting to hear from you

day after day, and it most assuredly is high time that you 'had eo-me kind of a holiday. Where is your i-uggage?” It is with difficulty that I command my voice. “Lady Lorimer, I have left home for ever. I have come here to earn my living, and I did not intend to make myself known to you.” It sounds ungracious, stiff, cold; but every word ha© t-o be dragged forth, and I see her face through ,a mist. “'Have you friends lie re, Violet?” “No. I am quite alone. I feel that I am going to be ill ” “I see that,” She interrupts, “and we wil-l lose no more time talking here. You must come with me, and tell me what you pl-ease when you are able. Do come, dear; you know that- I have been wanting you and waiting for you, and don’t mind anything else.” Still keeping her hand on my airm She guides me to a waiting bro-ugham, and sits beside me, with caressing little gestures and words, only womanly sympathy and compassion in her eyes and softened tone©. “When.did you leave home?” she a-sks, and I have to reflect a little before I can say, so -confused have I become. I cannot tell her why I have left home ; I cannot go into the details of the treatment which has driven me away. Why should I justify myself at the cost of others? I only say brokenly and incoherently that I have been very unhappy, that I have been a burden and a care to my relatives, and this step seemed my only alternative. “Why, Violet,” ©he. says, and there are tears in her eyes, “we always liked t-o picture you -a-s being quite happy. I always thought your people would he so proud of you and your genius. Never mind; you are my -dear and honoured guest, and I will take care of you, since you -have been given into my hands. It does seem strange that I was there just <at the right, moment, blit the explanation is simple enough. I went , to

(the station to see my husband off. IW lias gone to a dear friend to whom a great and sudden trouble has come. Wo heard of it- just in time for Jack to get away by that particular train—a little later and 1 should have missed you. Her kind hand presses mine, and there is a short silence. I hear her murmur to herself: “Poor Arthur, I wish I knew how it will end,” and then she asks me if there is anything I. would wish to bo done. It seems to me as if there i.s something, and while I endeavour to discover what it is, something in my brain snaps, and memory and understanding are gone. CHAP TIES, IV. Stephen Greig awakens sobered by sleep and sullenly ashamed of himself when he recalls his treatment of his cousin, but lie soothes liis conscience by mentally deciding that someone will have let her in, and that a man is not responsible for what he does when he has taken “too much.” ITo looks about him •furtively, in the hope of seeing her as ho leaves liis room, but there is 510 indication of her presence. Perhaps the poor lassie is afraid cf him, and so is keeping out of his way, he thinks, with new comr punction. Pie goes to the open doors, looking out, but no signs' of her are in the garden. He hears Mrs Greig’s step heavier, slower and more solemn than usual, and follows her into the sittingroom, his face flushing as he sees' that the table is set for two only. “Where is Violet?” he asks, looking down. “She never came back. She has been away all night.” od>v “And you can sit down to eat!” Stephen cries, hut Mm Greig lays a detailing hand on his nrm.l “Wait till you hear,” she says. “That girl is deeper than I thought even, and’ this tale of hers hides more than we know. What do you think. Bessie, the •byrewoman. told me this morning ? That when she was in the field yesterday she

saw Violet with a gentleman, and he left Shea 1 just at the turn, of the lane, so as not to he seem from the house.” “You believe Bessie,” is Stephen’s comment.

“I do. She is a God-fearing, Christian woman. She could tell who the mam was, too; Lord Wyniard’s brother, Mr Scrope.” “And he’s on board his ship,” says Stephen, scornfully. “So there’s a lie.” “Bessie may have been mistaken, but some man has been with Violet. Violet did not tell me that! Oh, the iniquitous deceit of the girl! Where does she think it will end ?” “I wish she had come hack,” he said, gloomily. 'You shouldn’t have laid you? hands om her,” says Mrs Greig, and then he starts up with an oath. “Why did you set me on her, then? ihe Adam-like demands. “Why did you say she had stolen the money ? You’ve an ill mind where she is concerned, and -I ought to have l’emembered that!” He walks to the sideboard, tossinjj off Borne raw spirit, and begins buttoning Ihis coat with the evident intention of going out. “She’ll be Safe enough, Stephen, don’t you fear,” says Mrs Greig, soothingly. “She’ll he coming home when she thinks you are out of the way.” “Well, you—you can tell her it was the whisky, grandmother; I’d be sorry to hurt her. Maybe what she said was true.”

‘You should look after the money, I think. I’d give the matter into the hands of the police l , I would indeed.” “Perhaps I should. Anyhow, I’ll have the notes stopped, and that will help to catch the thief. You can tell Violet I’m doing that, and if she’s lying it may frighten her out of it.” He decides to go at once to Monifields, «and soon is driving rapidly along the road that winds in sun and shadow so many miles. He has passed the last lodge-gate of Benotar when he hears the thundering of hoofs, and drawing rein looks aside, to see a mounted groom gallop by at full speed. The man shouts something as he passes, but Stephen only distinguishes tho name of Wyniard. It is, however, evident that some unusual thing has happened at the castle, perhaps burglary. Violet has been right after all, and excited by this thought he applies the whip, and frets with impatience until his wheels rattle over the Btony streets of Monifields. He is too early for the tank, but he drives to the police office. At the door stands a steaming 'horse, held by a lad, and there is a prolonged delay before Stephen is attended to. The groom comes out of an inner room, excited and important, and only then is Mr Greig asked what may be his business. He is listened to without much interest.

“Oh, yes, to be sure. Weld, we’ll take the numbers,” says the official, indifferently. “Miss Grant gave'us a good deal of information already, and we’ll see what we can do.”

“Miss Grant ? When ?” asks Stephen, and the other looks surprised. “She same in early this morning, and reported the case,” he says, and Stephen ia. silent. Then, not wishing to commit himself, or betray any of last night’s trouble, he nods a good-morning and turns away, feeling somewhat stupefied. The official accompanies him to the door, and says again that • they will do ■what they can, and hare no doubt of capturing the thieves. “Hear anything about Lord Wyniard up your way?” he asks, as if causally," but. looking sharply enough under his eyelids at Stephen. '‘That was one of the castle grooms, you know.” “What is the matter? A robbery there?”

“N —no. Well, I can’t say. Lord Wyniard was found dead, this morning, and that’s about all we know yet.” “Good Lord! Was he killed?”

“Oan’t say. It’s another case for us. The man 'has gone on to the Wyniard Arms to tell Mi’ Scrape, who’s staying there.”

Stephen reddens, and starts. “ Seems he came home yestenday, though. It’ll be a shock for him.” “Why- is he not staying at Benotar?” Stephen asks, and the official looks down the street at the distant Wyniard Anns, a White handsome old-fashioned hotel. * “Perhaps he prefers to he here,” he Bays, innocently. “Well, good-morning, Mr Greig. You’ll hear from me as soon as we have (anything to tell you.” Stephen stands heating the palm of his hand with his whip, staring down the street under scowling brows. Then, bidding a boy look after his horse and trap, he walks' deliberately to the Wyniard Arms, up the white steps, decorated with grey vases of geraniums, and into the oheea’ful, spotless entranceiball.

“Mr Scrape is staying here,” he says to the inquiring waiter. “I want to see him.” V

- “I think Mr Scrope is engaged just how, sir; hut I’ll ask.” . “I’ll wait,” Stephen says, doggedly, and wait he does, some time elapsing before he is told that he may see Mr Scrope, and then he is shown into a private room where the young gentleman is in the extreme of distress and agitation. “Will you kindly bo as brief as possible?” he ask®. “I have just heard terrible news,, and I am anxious to get to Benotar as soon as possible.” Stephen looks at him hard. “What have you to do with my COUsin?” he demands. “You were seen

with her yesterday, and I want to know what you mean by it. We know too well what you Scrapes of Benotar are to stand much from you.” “I have not the faintest idea of what you mean.” “Bo you deny that you were with my cousin at Stanekirk yesterday?’ Stephen more loudlv asks. -

“Your cousin ? I don’t know your cousin; Toon’t know you. For God’s sake, my good man, do not detain mo at such a time! What is it you want or mean ?” he .asks, and then all at oncja a light breaks on him. “Your cousin was assaulted and robbed yesterday?” be questions, and receiving an assent, explains bis share in the transaction quickly and briefly, Stephen listening in gran silence. “Was that the first time you had met her?” he asks, and Arthur Scrope flushes through the paleness of alarm and horror.

“Why do you put such a question to me, sir, in such a tone?” he demands. “Because my cousin has left her home. She was seen in this town early this morning, and you are here, instead of at your home. If you know anything about her, Mr Star ope; if you have anything to do with her running away—and the whole thing is suspicious ” Mr Scrope interrupts, pointing from the door to the window.

“Both are open,” he says, “as you see. You can take your choice by which you will go out. One or the other it shall be!”

Stephen grinds liis teeth, then as steadily as he can walks to the door, whence he looks hack to say:

“AM right, Mr Scrope; but I may bring this home to you yet, and then take care of yourself.” When he gets outside he feels that he has acted like a madman, a sensation that, does not improve his temper. When he returns home there are no> tidings of Violet, and Mrs Greig is anxious and alarmed, her conscience reproaching her. “We must try to find her, Stephen,” she says, timidly. “She- —she won’t have made away with herself?” “No fear of that,” he returns, harshly. “She’s safe enough somewhere. You ought to be glad she’s gone, for you were always crying out about the trouble she was 1”

It is evening When a telegram comes to the farm, and Stephen tears it open with trembling fingers, feeling instinctively that it concerns the missing girl. To his surprise it is- from Lady Lorimer, and contains only two sentences: “Violet is safe with me. Bo not expect her to return.” A flush of shame burns to his very hair; he hands the message in silence to Mrs Greig, Whose hands and eyes go skywards. . “Heaven forgive her ingratituder she cries. “Stephen, she hae taken your money to get off to these fine folk! Oh, haven’t I always said that would end badly? Terrible will be His judgments, not to be endured His wrath!” “It’s not ended yet,” says Stephen; “but let her go. When they weary of her and cast her off, she’ll not need to look here for help or protection,. We have done with her once for all!” “What a tale she will have made of it,” sighs Mrs Greig. “O Stephen, let it. be a lesson to you never to take drink again!” Stephen turns on her, his hands clenched.

“Let it he a lesson to you to sometimes hoild your tongue!” he says, with an anger that frightens her into silence, and in a tone that seems to make the windows shake.

Some time before these events, there is one day put into tihe hands of Mr Arthur Scrope, on board H.M.S. “Tartar,” lying then off the Irish coast, a packet addressed in characters that set all his veins tingling, and in place of green headlands and. a silver tide Iris-sing ffche feet of the Emerald Isle, lie sees a. sweet-angelio face and a fairy shape amid the blossoming lines of the Cockney’s garden, and as soon as may he l , retires to the sanctuary of his cabin, feeling that this is truly a “crowned day.” He opens the cause of his rapture with reverent fingers. It is a very trim and tidy little packet, exhaling the faintest odour of white rose. The first tiring he sees is the daintiest of creamy envelopes addressed in the same delicious, joy-in-spiring handwriting. Arthur Scrope for aj!l his sunburn and square shoulders, for all his eight-aind-twenty years, with the experience they of necessity bring, is yet boy enough to press the epistle to Iris lips, and a -whole world of tenderness is in his dark blue eyes as he renders this homage to the fair young queen of his life

The removal of the first letter shows what lies beneath, and Arthur stares bewildered o)t a collection of envelopes and enclosures each and all in his own handwriting. What in the world is the meaning of this ? One by one he turns them over, a sudden swelling in his throat, a sudden aching in his temples. There is no mistake about it; these are the letters he has been permitted to write to his beloved from the first beginning “Dear Miss Quenton” to the last with its “My dearest Madeline,” and her “adoring Arthur Scrope-,” stares in a silent consternation, all the sunshine blotted out. Then he tears -open Miss Quent-on’s own letter, his teeth hard otn his lip, his brows in a knot. Dear Mr Scrope,—Under tho circumstances I ha-ve decided to return vanr

letter®. I think you have misunderstood my feelings of friendship, and I fear that I have misunderstood your motive in writing to me. Assuring you of my unaltered esteem. I am, Dear Mr Scrope, Yours sincerely, MADELINE QUENTON.

“Under the circumstances!” echoes Arthur Scrope. “Under what circumstances? What have I done? What | has occurred to change her whole mind | like this?” |

He reads the letter again, then throws it from him, and sends his own flying after it.

“It has taken her long enough to discover that I wanted more than friendship, the Lord knows!” he says, in angry bitterness, then rises and walks round his table—a limited promenade whicu repeated may take a little of the wrath out of him. “Some confounded busybody has been at work between us,” ho decides. “Madeline never wrote that letter without some stronger reason than the onqjsjhe gives. Someone has been poisoning her ear. But I shall not take my dismissal so quietly. I have the right to demand" a fuller explanation; arid I will!”

In the meantime, however, nothing can be done to attain that desirable end. Arthur having decided to write from Benotar before seeking a personal interview witn Miss Quenton, has to gnaw his soul on board the “Tartar” for several days yet, and the response is trying. But the hour of release comes, and a certain day sees him landing at Monifields, where his bronzed face, hi® upright figure, his ever-ready smile, have won him easily a fair amount of popularity. He drives from the old burgh to Benotar, seeing from the distance its floating flag, and one and all, from the smiling lodgekeeper, Who sets open the gates with a flourish, to the gracious old

housekeeper, a stately and voluminous person bound in black silk, hid him a heartfelt welcome. Arthur Scrope carries sunshine with him, and its ray® falll on his dependents as well as on his dquals. “Lord Wyniard is at home, I see,” lie says to the beaming Mrs Garnet. “When did he arrive ? Is he within hail ?” “His lordship rode out about an hour ago, Mr Scrope; but he left orders for dinner t.o he -served at the usual time, so he’ll he back then, if not before. Of course, he was not sure when you would arrive.” “Of course not,” says Mr Scrope, with a faint smile. His brother lias not an absolutely vital interest in his movements. “Well! sweet home is as sweet as ever, Mrs Garnet. I’m glad to see the old place and the kind old faces again. Bub liow is it that you look ten years younger every time I come? “Ah, now, Mr Arthur! time moves as fast with me as he (Joes with us all. But we have been looking forward to your coming, sir. It always takes me back to younger days, wh&n you were a boy that height, and i hadn’t a grey nair m my head. Ah, dear me, change upon change!” , Mr Scrope may not quite understand the last sentence, or the sigh accompanying it, but he makes some cheerful reply, and as he does not allude to the approaching marriage of the lord of the castle, the housekeeper, of course, does not, though she fain would know bow it is to affect “Mr Arthur,” who ha® been heir-apparent as well as presumptive in the eyes of the household for many years. “There are -same letters in your room, sir.” she say®, as his glance travels stair wards, “and a paper his left there. Shall I order some lefieshment fo-r you now?” “Oh. no, not- yet. 11l nvut tor Wyniard,” 'and Arthur aoes unstairs witdl

a leaping heart to his own peculiar sanctum, arranged by a loving mcihei s hands in days gone by. A host oi boy- j feh treasures are the later belongings of manhood. Airs Garnets oax e has°beautified every nook with flowers. The open window gives a fine view of woods and ~ gardens falling lower and lower to a winding rood with a smiling pastoral valley spreading beyond, anu x stone seems to roll off the young man’s . heart. Surely all will he well yet; the ; great desire of his life will not be taken ; from him. nor the light of .his dearest hope he quenched. . ! Letters lie on the table, and bo hastily looks them over. They are all from acquaintances'; there is not the tinest scrap from the hand he loves. He opens and reads his correspondence with a sigh of j resignation. Eric Harden sends him a j long and friendly scrawl, written in a strain of unusual good nature, and with none of the "hitters” with which he usually flavours his epistles; but thou an ho says much of the Lorimevs ano of | other mutual friends, he makes no altosion to the Qu enters, an omission which , strikes Arthur as pointed. "Eric knows.” ho says. flushing. ."Whatsoever he the cause of Madeline’s, sudden changeful ness,. Erie, knows!” Eric Harden and Arthur Sc robe have always got on well together; the one can remember many kindnesses shown him bv the other in days when kirn .ness- j es were rare, and certain pleasures of j his penniless, striving days ho owes to j Arthur. Arthur, on his sioe, has a j faith in Eric which not many sinre, and j which may or may net. be justified, kto j wonders now if ne should apply to Erie j for a solution of the mystery, yielding . thus far to wounded pride; but speedily ! decides that this is not love's way, and that from Madeline herself must the explanation come. ; There is a society journal at his e.bow, and his attention turns next to that. He supposes it is the paper left by ma brother. A pen has been struck through one of its many paragraphs, and as Arthur reads his head drops upon his hands, and no further enliglitment is needed. It is a paragraph which, is causing some little star in society, announcing, as it does, the approaching marriage of Miss Quenton and Lord AVyniard, whom people have hitherto believed would -die single, if the providence that watcheth over the bilue-hioodcd dons not abandon him to a "mesalliance” with some belle of bar or ballet. It lias been written by one who knows, and adds to the bald fact artistic details of trousseau, re-sotting of the'Wyniard diamonds, and decorating of the Wyniard town-house, for the fair bride. It w a paragraph that i.s gall and wormwood to the out’'aged heart of Adelaide Yerrard. and to Arthur Scrape an astounding revelation of duplicity and deceit. The explanation nas come with a vengeance. He understands quite Well why his letters have been returned, why it lias so suddenly occurred to Miss Quenter? that he writes as a lover, not as a friend. He understands, top, why he has been kept so long at bay, why ids words of love have always been checked arid averted. He has attributed all this to maiden shyness and girlish fears, but in reality it lias meant a wealthier suitor in the background, who might of might not advance; it has meant; too, the betrayal of brotherly faith and trust. When he looks up much of his sunburn seems to have faded, his face appears thinner, his eyes heavy , hut no motion whatsoever is visible. He still is able to keep a stern self-control. He rises quietly and rings, and his own man. a handsome Highlander, replies. "McDonald, put my luggage on the dogcart and drive to the Wyniard Arms. Engage rooms, I shall sleep there tonight.” • Whatever McDonald may think,_ however, he may wonder, he obeys with silent * promptitude. Mr Serope’s action 6ets a stream of comment and gossip flowing through the servants’ hall, where it is attributed to the forthcoming change, and everyone wonders if there will be any "words” when his lordship returns.

' Arthur does not await that return indoors : lie feels that it is well nigh impossible to breathe within hfe brother's walls, and he goes out to the "lifted universe’of crest and crag,” to The sweet stillness of country lanes, trying hard to

conquer himself, to overcome alike the anguish, the passion'and the resentment of his eouil. He has always had of woman an exalted idea, very rare in these days, thanks in some wise to woman herself. and having seen only "the side that’s next the sun” of Madeline Quenton thus tii, he, has believed lmr the very flower of the purer, truer, holier sex. Hence to-day’s revelation fills his soul with astonished loathing. But through all his emotions, his native justice prevails, for -he does net at once decide that all women are lair and false. The vintage of Ins n i bare is too generous to be soured by oao thunder clap—that is left for small beer—nor are his eyes turned so far inward- that he cannot see any distress but his own. He is able to forget, if only momentarily, his own shipwreck in trying to construct a ra_t for someone else, and can speak words of kindly comfort to poor Violet Granc, though his heart he 'desolate and freshly bleeding. >, jieu no returns again to Benotar, after an absence of hours Lord Wyniard lias oomo home also, and is writing. in & .ibraiy. Arthur, r.fter a slight ne.ntatier. walks slowly in. and his brother iooks up n-om a mass of blue papers with a nou, his face impassive as. ever. "Well, Arthur," he says, resting on his elbow, "you are off duty "at last.”

"Yes.” Arthur finds some difficulty in uttering even one little word, which expresses nothing. There is something more in his look, and in his attitude—his shoulders held back, his head upright, his mouth curved downwards.

i* ynia,rd reads a legal letter carefully, makes a note on it. tosses it aside, then again turns to his brother. “Have you anything to say to me?” he inquires, question and attitude suggesting uis desire for solitude. "’Only that you might have taken a kinder way of letting mo know of your approaching marriage.” Wyniard removes a hair from Inis pen. "AYell?” he says, calmly. "AVell?”

"That is all. Perhaps you can very w©i. imagine all that I leave unsaid.” "Perhaps so,'’ Wyniard agrees. He •smiles, and draws the ends -of his moustache carefully into opposite directions. "I can, of course very well understand why you resent my marriage. For one thing it kills your prospects ; for another, you wanted Miss Quenton yourself.” os you knew: our brotherhood might have protected me from your treachery.” "You road Shakespeare, Arthur, don’t you ? You will remember what he says about tho ‘fl*t transgression of the schoolboy,’ no doubt.” -"Tho transgression is in the stealer,” Arthur replies, quickly, adding more deliberately "I leave here at once, AVyniard. I need scarcely say that I shak never enter house of yours again.” "Isn’t that too, severe . a punishment, Arthur? Show me a little mercy. AVhat have I lrirfc, of thee bereft?” The mockery tries Arthur’s self-con-trol to the utmost, but, highly wrought though lie is, lie turn-s without reply to tho door, and has opened it when AVyniard rises', calling him hack. "Stop a moment. You have Miss Question’s letters?” "And what of that?” demands Arthur. "I will trouble you to give them up to me,” answers AVyniard, sharply. An indignant flush rises in Arthur’s face at the peremptory tone and at the request.

"I will give them up to Miss Quenton -herself, certainly not to anyone else,” ho answers, very decidedly, and a faint, shade of jealousy and suspicion crosses the other’s face. "You have no right whatsoever to retain letters written by my fiancee. I insist upon their being given up at once.” "Go on insisting,” says Arthur, scornfully. “Do you imagine that I can sink in n. day to your level ? that I also can he a cad as well as a coward ?”

“Do you apply those terms to mo?” Lord AVyniard demands, advancing. “I do. without qualification.”

Wyniard’s hand, with its glittering ring, flies oait, striking Arthur on the hot, contemptuous lips. Blood follows the blow, and the furious colour fades from the younger man’s face. He seems but to step forward and AVyniard lies in a breathless heap on the ground. Then Arthur’s angry arm drops, and only shame is expressed in his face and attitude.

"‘My God, AVyniard!” he says, "and we are the sons of one mother!”

AVyniard rises slowly, .and stands with every nerve in life face twitching, life clenched hand uplifted. So for a moment they confront each other, then without speaking Arthur walks from the room pressing his handkerchief to his bleeding mouth. Slowly he goes, sick with shame, filled with a horror of himself, and of the evil passions roused to so fierce a life that he is giddy with the force. Hitherto he has possessed his soul in patience and in peace, and all that is generous, gentile, and refined in him is outraged by the recent scene by the memory of his own fury and the madness of it. Some time elapses before be is collected enough to give necessary orders regarding hfe belongings, and h© is still too much agitated to notice the interested scrutiny of the man who attends him, who has been an unseen and admiring spectator of the quarrel, who has already related to hfe fellow-servants how, chancing to pass the library, and hearing hign voices, he couldn’t help looking , in, concluding his little narrative with the remark that he didn't think there was as ttviidh of the devil in Mr Serene, with

quite a new appreciation of, Mr Serope’s merits. Arthur decides to walk to Monifields thinking it will he a good way of calming himself, and as he goes he tries to look his position fairly in the face, to reason himself out of a not unnatural sorrow and depression. He has lost bis betrothed and brother, and the definite aim of his life is gone; home joys, sweetnesses, and sanctity emanating from one beloved form are not to be his. The first 10-ve of bis heart has been thrown away, called into life that she may have the pleasure of slaying it. Still, if love be the flowers, duty .is the road, winding, however rugged .and stony, to heavenly summits; ii the flowers have withered, the firm read remains, and Arthur has no thought of ending bis life, or of making himself a melancholy nuisance to his fellow-creatures. A man may have a worso in-otto than "Grin and bear.” .He has not yet arrived at this conclusion, nor is he able to think with calmness of ilia brother’s treachery and the mocking triumph of Ins words and manner. Wyniard certainly has been neither penitent nor ashamed.

(To bo continued.)