HIS OWN ENEMY.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1678, 27 April 1904, Page 4

HIS OWN ENEMY.

BY MARY CROSS.

Author of “Under Sentence,” “A Womain’s Victory,” “False Witness,” “A Dark Deceiver,” etc. CHAPTER Vll.—Continued. I puzzle a little over his meaning. I recall Lil’s words to the effect that he gives you hitters disguised as sweets, and try to interpret his sentences by that. ‘Do you mean that I shall gratify myself most? that the flowers of life will run to seeds of selfishness?” “I mean that the selfishness is mine, and that I ask you to share and gladden my life, Violet. I will be faithful to you, I will be kind. I will shield you from the dangers and- cares and evils of life as far as lies in my power. If knowledge is power. I shall guard you well!” The blood bounds through my veins, my heart leaps upward at his tone. I look at him in my amaze and incredulity, every limb trembling. His pale colour remains unaltered, and in his dark eyes quiet earnestneas is all I see.

“We have not known each other very long,” I say, Eve-like, lingering in temptation.

“If we know each other longer, shall we like each other more or less? Is ft after all a question of the length of our acquaintance?” “You have forgotten your own advice to me,” I tell him, and then colour, ashamed of the accuracy of my own remembrance where he is concerned. He too remembers, for he faintly smiles. “I should never ask you to fulfil prosaic and commonplace duties. Comfort at least I offer, if not luxury. I can at least gratify a womanly and natural desire to have a home of your own.” A home of my own! As in a glass darkly I see the lonely, bumble place where I mean toi work out my life in not unhelpful seclusion; and another home, with, a companion on whose strength my weakness rests, sharing my labour, understanding and encouraging my art, helping me ever higher; and the very thought fills me with a delirious joy. I see him, with all the fascination belonging to a young, handsome, and distinguished man, and my heart thrills and trembles.

Only for a moment, then X remember Lill and all I owe her, and what her wish is. I think of beautiful Madeline Quenton, gifted and graceful, born in that brilliant society..to which I shall never belong, and I turn away quickly without a word. It is the only movement I have strength to make. “Have I offended you ?” he asks.

“Oh. no. But my own labour can provide my own home, Mr Harden; and if I ever marry *it will be lor one reason alone.” “And that?” “Because I love—an am beloved.”

Again that deep silence prevails, and now no chirping bird or wind-waved bough disturbs it. “I do not wish you to answer me now,” at length Eric says, “if you will coneider it wJtnslst lam away, and write to me •”

“Oh, no, no, no; let it be decided hero and now, never to be spoken of again!” I ray, for I know that with this temptation must be no trifling,, that I dare not linger by Eden’s gate looking at the joys beyond. My voice fails me and I can say no more; he is merciful, and lets what I have said suffice. He gives me time to dry my streaming eyes and gather my self-control before he teills me very quietly ana gently that he is sorry to have so much distressed me. He lays his hand on mine which aches and throbs with the tightness of my grasp upon the old tree.

“You decide that we remain friends? It is not, I hope, impossible.” “I shall always -he your friend,” I say with difficulty.

Only a little while logger do we linger, and then I begin idcf* witt uncertain and unsteady steps, not refusing the assistance he naturally and unobtrusively gives, t or evefything is blurred and indistinct, and a . dread of my own weakness is upon m©.‘ Ini s laughter floats to me as we bolt at the foot, and effectually brings me to myself* I try

not to be silent during our homeward walk, and to meet her eyes cheerfully; hut once in the house, I can keep my seilf-possession no longer, and seek the refuge of my room, pleading headache as excuse for absenting myself from dinner. Oh, that headache! How many feminr ino grievances, pains, and distresses shelter themselves behind that slight barricade! Against how many questions and vexations does it not defend us! How many mental tragedies does it conceal ! Mine hides my warfare against a strong, supremely selfish desire. Dinner is over, and Sir John is reading a magazine by one of the many lamps. Eric leans against the mantel, meeting unmoved Lady Larimer’s searching eyes. The Darrioehs have invited us for Thursday,” she says. “I suppose we shall go?” "“Make my excuses, please. I start for London on Wednesday, with your gracious permission.” ■‘Erie what has happened?” “T think you have' guessed. Mis® Grant has refused me.”

Lil stares at him blankly for a moment or two.

‘Oh, why ?” she asks. <f Wbv not? What had Ito offer Misst Grant ?”

“What had you not to offer?” . “Not the one thing such as she most prizes it would seem. I thought she woum prefer my stone to any others bread; but live and unlearn.” Lii leans back in her chair, all eyes. Mr Harden nods encouragingly. don’t believe you cared for Violet at aid, or you could not be so cool,” she declares. sharply. “You would be more concerned it some publisher had rejected your MS.”

“No doubt, ior that would be an alarming retrogression, or a. fingar-post pointing to decay, decline, and ultimate ruin.'”

Biilia.n contemplates him with bewildered disappoinment. “ And what becomes of the book you are writing together?” “Sentiment will not in the least effect its progress.” “Why did you ask Violet to marry you, if you care so little ahout her?” Lil demands, indignantly. ‘Won know what the husband said when rebuked for allowing his wife to heat him ? ‘lt pleased her and didn’t

hurt, me.’” “If you belonged to me. I don’t know what I should do will you!” cries Lil, with her own impetuous heat. “You are your own enemy. Eric, and I am not m the least surprised that Violet refused you, hut perhaps you will have mere sense, and even a grain of human feeding the next time you ask her ! “The next time,” Mr Harden repeats, vaguely. . _ “Yes the next tame. Does one refusal satisfy you?” asks Lil angrily. Mr iiarden still looks blank. “I beg **our pardon, Lilian.” he says, deprecatingly. “I am afraid that instead of listening to you I was tlmiKing wn should say next myself. Lady Lorimer flings out her hands -with a gesture expressing her resignation of him to any fate, and Sir John, ■who has heard of the verbal passage of arm®, comes forward' in has .usual goodnatured way, gnd with an air of casting oil on the troubled waters, looks from one to the other amiably. “Miss Grant has the right to- please herself, of course.” he- says, and Erie could not compel her to accept lum. I think we should let the master 1 esty and I guarantee that if Eric himself had not told us of his rejection we sncnld not have known anything about it.’ “Though the majority of girls would like to boast of such a triumph,” says Mr HSairdten,, with an admiring survey of his own countenance iu an opposite mirror. “Violet does not belong to the majority,” returns Lady Lommer, rising in her wrath; “and, with a withering glance “I don’t know that it is a, triumph after ail!” CHAPTER VIII. Next day my headache is gone, though not a heartache new to me, and which I know must perforce be-subdued. I wonder for a little while if I shall tell Lilian ■what has happened, eventually deciding notate do so, when I remember her plans for her .sister. and reflect that Brie Har-

iden has at best for me the most transient of passing fancies, offered me marriage perhaps only-»ej%bf compassion, C-or under a-mistaken idea that I fear the C unknown sea on which I shall soon be •launched. It is probable, too, that he will not wish his friends%> he aware of his rejection, so all t;mngs~ tend to helping my decision to keep my own counsel I feel a little difficulty- in getting over

the first meeting with, him after without self-consciousness and awkwardness, and am thankful that it takes place at breakfast when one’s pre-occupation is less noticeable. Lil and Sir John chiefly sustain the conversation, though Mr .Barden heilps them with the usual amount.

of cynical or sarcastic speeches, and certainly is in no way discomposed. I Know not what emotions, how much sensibility, how much wounded pride his marble mask may conceal, and possibly he sees as little of mine.

Igo as usual to my writing, hailing desk and pen as my refuge from painfull recollection, but a heavy heart weighs mo down,, and' the wings of thought are

weary, almost irresistible longing to lay mv head on my arms and let tea is and sobs have their own way taxes possession of me, and I am trembling on the borderland of feminine weakness, when the handle is turned, the door opened, and Mr Harden enters with his customary {languid step, and without a trace of embarrassment returns me my corrected proofs, and gives me t-hfe notes

of a chapter carrying our story a stage further. His composure restores mine. I am not likely to expose myself to his contempt, and I answer him as usual.

He tolls me witli alii his ordinary deliberation that ho is going away, and enters into dry business details to which I listen in silence. He gives me an. ad-

dress where communications for him must be sent, and then leaves me. It is all over. We are business partners and nothing more. A day later sees his departure. He allows Lil’s children to kiss him, takas a cordial leave of her and of Sir John, and extends his hand to me. My own meets it cold as ioe. and as irresponsive, and he-is gone. That long November! Through it I wage a sharp warfare, forcing myself to solitary work, permitting no regret for days of congenial, companionship to em ter, writing to liim only when obliged, and then in the most matter-of-fact-way, and by degrees my heart no longer trembles at sight of the familiar characters, a mist no longer dims.my eye in the walks I have trodden with him, and I hear his: name without emotion. Gradually my surroundings dissociate themselves from him. and the brief and dangerous infatuation dies, because I refuse it the food it craves and the daily sustenance it needs to keep it in existence. I conquer, as conquer one can who will. December comes, hard and chill, but without snow. Stem and gannt are the mountains; bleak and barren the plains. Rushing water sounds weird amid the wintry silence. Kiltartan is, however, sheltered, and rich in fir and spruce and pine, in evergreen, shrubs with vivid berries; and the birds have grown more familiar. We have been expecting Mrs Quenton and- her daughter since the month began, and so l am not surprised when, one afternoon, sounds of an arrival penetrate to my sanctum, and I hear the full. rich, well-fed tones that

distinguish Mrs Quenton. Time lias dealt, gently with her, has spared the dark luxuriance of her hair and the lustre of her eyes. She greets me with the air of a gracious sovereign, and pays me some pleasant; compliments on my writing. Lil, who is .‘brimming over with good spirits, leads me merrily off to her sister's dressing-room to renew our acquaintance. A bright fire lights it, aided: by the long mirrors from floor to ceiling, and the shaded lamps are turned low. A satin screen surrounds a tiny table, and beside it is Madeline in a flowing tea-gown which: defines’ her slender shape. There is mo sign in her of having been shadowed* by tragedy, nothing to indicate- that hero is - one whom cruel death has robbed of her bridegroom. The Moom on her oval cheek' Is’ delicately fresh and fair; the clear brightness of her eyes: xm dimmed: She: offers me “a hand like a white- wood -Blossom',” and in the action: is-the- languor’ only of fatigue, not of sadness- or regret. ‘T remember you,, though I don’t sup-

pose I should? have- known you elsewhere,” she says, returning to tea and

cake,, after slipping her fingers in and out of mine,. an<t stiffing avtiny yawn. “It’srather nice- to bee again; in Scotland, til. I hated Germany; I showM*' have been bored to death but for old? Sir- David Crombib.. Er£o Handenfe Sir David!,', you. . know., He; took quite* a fatherly interest in me, and was: positively devoted* to mamma, You and Erie; Harden are gr eat •. friends-,, are you nofeS”" she-asks, fixing on - line a pair of: blue eyes, a trifle' hard amd: - nnq-uailing; ‘WF® are; writing a. book together:”' ‘Tndeed;E lam glad: to. find so- much kindness in Erie..”’ ‘'Kindness.!”’ echoe® Lil*,. “I don’t think Eric- is? harming his/ own-, interest by thecollaboration.”’ Lil!” says* Madeline, with, reproach.. “I£ Miss) Grant hsa». not discovered Brie*® self-seeking motivesj, you . should hat speak. to# them,' tin hear. ” She: gives; m® & faint- snqi'e,, and says- .. Lil? always; was', and! always- wilil be looks) me-sloswly firqm head; to . foot,?, and; smiles-. againv c % used; tec have; quit® an exaggerated . ides* of ‘writing; wom^e^r» ,^ ”' shejsaysj, with •-frank almost, childlike,, “and

it is a relief to find you what vou are. Do you make your own gowns too ?” “Not yet. Some day I may be able to do that.”

“How clever! I shall always have to be content with what- Elisa sends me,” she says, smoothing the soft lace which falls away from her white throat to lose itself in folds of blue.

Presently I go away, leaving the sisters together , and as I close the door I hear Madeline say with a low rippling laugh: “Eric must have been amused with her. She is the land of person he would describe as Miss Hayseed.” A remark which sets my cheeks on fire. “Eric is never quite so commonplace,” retorts Lil, “and I know that . Violet satisfies what ho calls his artistic eye. She' has beauty both in feature and expression.”

Madeline lifts her shoulders disdainfully.

“I cannob imagine Eric marrying her, all the same. Perhaps he does not wish to do so ?” With a sharp glance. “We shall see,” returns Lil, briefly, and at once changes the subject. “I must tell you, Madeline, that we are expecting Lord Wyniard to join us almost immediately. Do you object to meet him?” “Why should IP’ asks Madeline, very sweetly, and- as Lit does not reply, adds: “What would you do if I did, deal’?” “I could only aisk him to postpone his visit, and give him the reason. But it doesn’t seem as if he wished to avoid you.”

Madeline looks down, to hide a gratified smile.

“Why should he, Lil, dear? For my part, I should like to meet Arthur again —only I mustn’t call him by the old name.” And then she sighs a little; whilst Lil’s eyes dilate to sauoere, though with an unusual discretion, she keeps silence.

Mrs Quemton takes life easily. A drive if the day be fine, a oajlly an entertaining book, make up her day’s enjoyment, ancl Madeline is as readily amused, though I hear her onoe or twice lament the want of society, and ridicule the I>arriachs ; with- whom she does- not 1 assimilate, and wonder how ILil can bury herself alive 1 here. At times she wild ask me a question about my writing, and say that she would have thought Eric’s books strong enough to stand alone; and’ asks if collaboration really is a confession of weakness-on one side or the other. It seems to me that she always leads the conversation on or back to him, and watches me narrowly when his name is mentioned. I ana conscious of a, vague discomfort in her presence;, and deem it well that I have shaken off the last shred of my weakness. I feel mo envy of her personal charms, for she gladdens my eyes with her brilliant young beauty; nor of her accomplishments,' for they give joy to us all. Still, at the end of many a-day,. I cannot helip exclaiming with Aurora Iz&igh,- !< How she talked to pain me! Woman’s spite!” Buhcheohu is: over , and 'the Quentons have gone-cut driving. T have been, peacefully reading for soiiie time when a dog-cart with luggage passes, the window and presently a footman, (opens the door;, announcing; “I/ord Wyniard*’’ and showing; in gentleman with dark-blue eyes* ax dark,, high-held head, and. ai sin*

gularly frank and engaging expression. We look at each other for a moment or two, then he advances, holding out his hand eagerly, with a warm and winning smile, and I know the kindly, handsome face of him who cheered and encouraged me in my despair. It is as if I have been long waiting far this hour, which comes like the sweet recurrence of completed rhyme. “I was not quite sure at first,” he says, all the genial sunshine of his soul in liis eyes.

“I did not think you would remember me, Lord Wyniard. But I knew you at onoe.”

“I am not changed, probably, and you are.”

“Am I ? That day of misery in the ; f ane is not so long ago.” | “But the misery is gone, and I see m- j stead peace and rest and happiness.” I “Yes, for your words came true, and j my trouble did prove good fortune in j disguise. You were very kind to me.” j “I have reproached myself often since; (for many an omission concerning you, j and my only excuse is the claim -of a deep ’ and sudden sorrow.” .j Now Sir John and Lil enter with ! warmest of welcomes, and Lord Wyniard tosses his tiny godson on his shoulder | merrily. ) “Miss Grant and I have met before,” j ho says, “though we were not then | aware of each other’s identity.” I Delicately.he avoids further ana more! particular allusion to our first meeting; j and we dll gather round the fire in cheer- j ful converse, for the short afternoon is; closing in, and the cold increasing. One does not- feel in Lord Wyniard’si pre- ; senoe the necessity for shield and sword to avert rapier thrusts of sarcasm, and no gall or bitterness is in his words, j One rather feels that as the sun draws; forth flowers, his kindly nature draws out the best emotion of his fellows, that I he is not only blind himself to one’s weaknesses and defects, but that lie! makes others ashamed of seeing them.! He belongs to the class who rejoice be-! cause thorns have roses, not to that which laments because roses must have thorns.

Quickly the time passes. We arc all J surprised when the dressing-bell rings. ! I depart, not because my toilet needs take much time, I’m sure, my wardrobe being limited indeed. Why have I never; thought of that until to-day? ! I am half way down the corridor lead-! ing to my room when Lord Wynarid over-1 takes me. He carries some exquisite | hot-house flowers, which must have been ! freshly cut. i “May I have the pleasure of seeing,: you wear these?” he asks, and I thank 1 him, (admiring the flowers with their waxen-like perfection: of form and : colour., !

“Yes- they are beautiful,” be agrees, not being the kind of man who thinks it “good form’* to depreciate his own gift, and" who offers you a thing as if he were rather glad to be rid of it than thinks to ; find pleasure in your acceptance. As I pass on, I see Miss Quenton standing, at. the door of her dressingroom. a I have not heard her return, but there she stands in -her long flowing . peignoir, (looking at me, : not with dis- ? pleasure, but with; downright anger. “I did not know of your being: on such 1 intimate terms* with Lord Wyniard,” she> says, sharply*.

“We have met before,” I reply, surprised alike by her tone and expression,' “Well, I did not think yon would- become quite so familiar with him in one day! Though it did not seem likely that you could ha\ r v> ivot him before you came to my sister's kiAisiy” she says with an up-and-down look of disdain. “You forget that Castle Benotar is near my old home,” I say, an answer which seems to acta fuel to fire, for she blushes scarlet, and di'aws up her long white throat, then gives a tiny sneer. ' “I certainly did forget it. So he gave you the flowers for auld lang syne?” she says, turning away, and I wonder if this is really sweet, innocent Madeline Quenton? What has occurred to disturb lieu* serenity ? I fasten some of the flowers at my neck, and they relieve my plain and sombre attire a little. I fear grandmother would rebuke me for vanity, quoting the fate of OFd Testament women, could she see me, hut I perceive no harm in an appreciation of the flowers’ beauty.

A great fire has been kindled in the hali, a fire of crackling flaming logs that makes a sea of light in the polished floor, and shadows from the bronze figures on pedestal and wall leap and dance to and fro. Lil. rejoicing in the warmth, ia talking to Lord Wyniard, who leans against an antique cabinet which might almost be called a reliquary of old china', and Sir John lias buried himself in a wide, low, easy chair with much contentment.

■ “Jack is exhausted after his usual struggle with his tie,” says Lil. “Talk of feminine concern about dress, torsooth! Still, he is nicer with that email weakness than with, say, Sir David C-rombie’s, whose only interest is in his own medicine bottle; and if his little finger -aches he knows the why and wherefore, and can prescribe for it. Eric Harden had a hypochondriac in one of his booke, and so blind are we to cur own peculiarities that Sir David never recognised the portrait as his own.” “It would play Old Harry with Eric’s prospects if he did,” declares Sir John. “And is that some new game, pray?” demands Lil, with severe dignity. “No, dear; an ancient sport, and one not infrequently inaugurated by a woman.”

“Don’t, Jack. You know. I hate second-hand things, and that is an imitation of an imitation of Eric —Harden-and-water, chiefly water,” asserts Lil. Now we hear the soft frou-frou of feminine skirts, and Miss Quenton comes into the firelight, which Clasps her fair face and Monde head, and perfect figure in its warm embrace. I think she is pale,, a curious-tightness about her. lips, when she stops short with a little shudder, looking straight into Lord Wyniard’s face without the faintest sign of recognition. He has advanced to meet her, but comes to a standstill, and Lil looks round in wonder.

“Why, Madeline, have you forgotten Arthur Scrape?” shA'lndf playfully asks. Miss. Q'uenton’s re jny’cutis the air like a : knife. . ’ '

“I am not at aill, to forget- the man who killed Wyriiard.”

There is a dreadful silence. Arthurs extended hand; drops: to his side,, pale and motionless lie- stares at her;, and for 1 some moments we all seem paralysed or stricken dumb. 'Miss. Quenton, makes,the ftob

movement, turning slightßy towards Lil, her head upheld. - “It is quit© impossible,” she says, in the same incisive tones, “for me to remain under the same roof with this man. One dr other of us must leave the house;” and slowly walking away, reascends the stairs. ' Lord Wyniard makes a hasty impet- •' nous movement forward, as if he means here and now to leave the house, but Sir John stops him with an outstretched arm. “Quietly, Wyniard,” he says. “I am master here, and you are my guest.” Lil is so pale that I fear her fainting, and she looks from one to the other in & helpless imploring way that is very pathetic. . “Do others say thi;.\ is she my only accuser?” asks Wyniard'. \ A hasty giance passes - between husband and wife, and Lord Wyniard’s pale lips contract with pain. “I did not know this,” he says. “It is indeed best for me to go.” Lil rises impulsively, her colour coming hack. “You shall not!” she exclaims, pas- ' not! & you think I am not hurt enough .an my own sister insults our best amfaeareeit friend?” And then, as she hursts into tears. I dip unobserved away," fired with indignation. How is that Madeline Quenton, eo soft and fair, can be so mercilessly i cruel ? Meanwhile Madeline has neared her own room, panting with unwonted excitement, exhausted by passion, to he encountered by her mother. ‘What in the world is the matter, Madeline, child?” Madeline goes’into her boudoir, flinging herself into the fust chair, and there gives an account of herself 3 to which Mrs Quenton listens with wrathful! astonishment.

“Upon my word!” she says'. “Upon my word! Why, Madeline,' you were worse than wicked, you were positively

vulgar. A mere dairymaid would have shown better breeding. To insult your sister's guest, and actually make a vulgar melodramatic scene! What m the woilld did you mean by it?” “I mean that I hate Arthur Scrope, and that I believe he did kill Wyniard! I read all the details, and I believe be bribed that woman—that innkeeper—to say that he had been in her house all night. She was a/n old servant, and would-be willing enough to save her former master’s son from the consequences of a murder.” “That, my dear, iy a horrible word a lady never should use, neither should ehe know anything about such things.” Madeline throws her head hack against the cushions of her chair, heating the ground with her foot and the arm of her chair with her fingers. “Besides which. Arthur Scrape is Lord Wyniard now,”-goes on Mrs Quenton. “He always liked you, and you could easily win him hack. Ho is considered morally better than his brother was, and he has now just the same position.” “And is flirting with that girl, Violet Grant, before my eyes!” “Well, if you are afraid of such a rival, I am ashamed of you,” says Mrs Quenton contemptuously. ‘The girl is goodlooking in a delicate, quiet way, but you have beauty and acoom.piisiinie.nts, and Arthur’s former liking for you on your side, besides Lil will give you all the help She can.” “It is too late now,” says Madeline, sullenly. “Leave that to me. You had better •toy here, and allow me to see what I ®an do, unless you really wish to lose \3he beet chance of your life.”

And so it happens that there comes into the midst of the agitated group in the hall Mi’s Quenton, with handkerchief in hand, a “choke” in her voice, and *a rush that carries her straight up to Lo rd Wyniard. “My dear Arthur! You see the -old name comes most- readily yet! "My dear, d<?ar boy, to think I have not seen you since your loss! I was so sorry for you. I would nave come to you hut /or-my

own charge, for a letter- could k>t ex- - press half my feelings. Poor Wyniard! lam sure you have suffered as much through death as I have, Arthur, and I did and do sympathise with you.” ‘‘Thank you, Mrs Quenton,” says Lord Wyniard. “And now tell 1 -me, dear Arthur, what has Madeline said to you?” . “Then—did shs not te'lil you?” asks

Wyniard. h “Oh, I found her in her room crying as if her heart would break, and she told jane she had said something dreadful to you. Her nerves have not quite recovered, from the shock Wyniard’e death gave her, and any reminder of it upsets her terribly.” “In that case my kindest and wisest course is to leave the house.” Mrs Quenton begins to cry. “I did not expect unkindness from you Arthur, after all the sorrow we have had! I cannot, do more than ask you to forgive Madeline’s hysterical words, and as we are in the wrong, we must go. I had better belli my maid to repack our trunks, and—oh, oh, oh!” “Airs Quenton,. I beg you will do nothing of the kind,” Wyniard says, hastily following. “I must, unless you con forgive poor Madeline, and you would if you saw her now !” And as Mrs Quenton sinks sobb-

ing into a chair, Wyniard cannot do- less than try to comfort her.

“It has .been all my fault,” she says, with the air of one making a death-bed confession. “Madeline has been too long unhappy, as you will understand when I tell you that it nearly broke her heart to return your letters. I thought I was studying her best interests, hut the poor child herself .acted under compulsion all the time, and I dictated the last letter she wrote to you.” Lord Wyniard looks silently down, and Mrs Quenton dries her eyes.

“Madeline must not know that I have told you this, Arthur,” she says. “I have done so only that you should not judge her too harshly. Tor my part, I deserve your condemnation. Still, do not be too severe upon a mother who. however mistakenly, tried to do her duty to bar child.” As Mrs Quenton sobs again, Lord Wyniard assures her that he is not implacable, that he is the last man to judge and condemn another, and so a peacd is established. Lil and ’her husband have slipped away and Sir John pats her head with his big hand as if she were a child.

“Don’t you worry, little woman; it’s no fault of yours,” he says, encouragingly- “ Jack; it has made me miserable, and I thought I was doing such a' good thing to bring them together again.” ‘We can’t play Providence successfully, little Lil, you see; and it is best to leave the settling of affairs to greater wisdom than our own.”

Lril turns her face so that it rests upon his shoulder, thanking the Wisdom that has guided her into the haven of a good man’s love, and Sir John puts his arm soothingly around her, an occasional “Poor Arthur! Poor old chap!” showing the current of his kindly thought. None of us are much inclined for dinner after this distressing scene. Mrs Quenton, indeed, remains upstairs with Madeline, whom she says is ill; and Lijl and I soon retire to the smaller draw-ing-room, where she cries a little, telling me not to mind her. “I really never felt so ashamed in my life,” she says; “and any man but Jack would have been in a towering rage. Down goes rav little castle in the air; for I hoped all would be right yet be-tween-Madeline and Arthur, and this, of course, makes it impossible.” I straighten myself, looking at her in inquiry, and a few words from her show me the mistake I have made. I might have accepted Eric Harden! My face grows hot. then cold, and I thrust from me a wild legion of thoughts anu emotions that fain would rule ray rebellious heart again. “Oh, if Madeline had not said that dreadful thing,” 'sighs Lil. “Jack and I have tried our best to keep even the faintest whisper of it from him, and to think he should hear it actually from my sister!” “Then it had already been said ?” “By some. Stories and whispers and scandals naturally fallow a death so enshrouded in mystery as was Wyniard’s,” replies Lil, and then tells me all she knows of the tragedy, sinking her voice to its lowest tone. “When did it happen ?” I ask, with an involuntary shudder, and she gives me the date, which she may well distinctly remember. ‘The morning you first came to me was the very morning after,” she says. “When I met you I had just seen Jack on his way to Arthur. Hush, I believe I hear them coming, and I don’t want them to know that we have been talking about it.” So the subject is perforce changed.

In my room 1 sink down tiredly, thinking of Lil’s words, that she lias wished Madeline to marry Arthur Sorope, Lord Wyniard. her former lover, and I close my eyes to know again that autumn day with its delicious scenery, the hand that touched my own, the eyes that thrilled me, the voice whose music must ever remain. If I had yielded then, if I had yielded then, and taken happiness when offered me!

If I had? Why probably now I should he tortured by self-reproach and the contempt of the mam who asked me to marry him only out of pity; I should' he lowered in my own eyes and in his. And is a vain regret the result of my struggle and hard conflict? Does myself after alt rise again to conquer me, and must I admit myself still in bondage? No; for again I shall how my neck to the yoke of harder and more unremitting toil. Conquer one can who will! Great is the facile conqueror; But happy he who, wounded sore, Breathless, unhorsed, all covered o’er With blood and sweat, Sinks foiled, but fighting evermore, Is greater yet. I wrench my thoughts from that forbidden subject, and the melancholy story Lilian has told me rises uppermost. Then suddenly the dark park and the walks sparkling with frost, and the coild starry sky vanish, and I see the summer moonlight flooding the gardens . at Benotar, and my awn figure shrinking away from another I have just seen leave the house. Oh, is it I who hold the solution of that hideous mystery? Between the face seen then and the face I know too well starts out a likeness. and as I recall my puzziled half-re-cognition of him on our first meeting, my very brain reels. I struggle to place distinctly in my mental vision those two faces side by side. They are alike in complexion and colouring, but one is caflm and cool and impassive, the other dis-

torted by many passions. _ Like yet unlike, I gaze at them, until the agony of my thoughts brings me to my knees, unable to face the terrific alternative, and I beg humbly for further light, for surer guidance, through my supplications one unuttered prayer throbbing, which is the centre and source of alll: any hand hut his, any hand hut his! Oh, in whose heart lies buried the secret of that summer night? CTAPTER IX. Lord Wyniard stands at the breakfast room window 1 , watching a robin which is waiting confidently for welcome crumbs, when Madeline comes slowly in, pale and sweet and languid and subdued. “Arthur.” He turns with a start, his eyes meeting the beautiful blue eyes of the girl he has loved, perhaps loves still, in spite of outraged pride and betrayed faith.

“I have come.” she says, her voice little above a whisper, ‘To ask your forgiveness for what I said last night. I hardly know what I did say, but I neither intended nor believed my own words. I could not possibly believe that of you!” “I hope not,” he answers, mildly but gravely, “though it seems that- others do.”

“Oh not your friends, not those who know you,” she says, in the same soft semi-tones. , “No, not my friends, thank God, otherwise I might despair' indeed. As it is, I can hope and wait for the lifting of the cloud.” “You don’t hope more fervently than I do. Do say that you f orgive my cruel, unkind words. I was SI, heartbroken, ashamed to meet you, distracted be-

tween one emotion and another. Do for* give me.”

“If you preferred poor Wyniard to mo, it was better to say so in time.” “But I did not,” she murmurs, looking down, “that is the worst of it.”

“I may he excused for thinking you did. However, we had best bury so painful a past, Miss Quenton.” “I deserve your harshness,” she says', meekly, “and I could bear it if I thought you would forget and forgive eventually.” “There are some things a roan never forgets, though he may forbid his thoughts to dwell on them.” Madeline has turned very pale, and now stretches out her hand for the support of a chair. Lord Wyniard assists her to it. his features relaxing from their unusual gravity. “You are weak yet,” he says, almost reproachfully. “Would it not have been wiser to winter abroad?” “Oh, what does it matter? I feel as if I had nothing left to live for, as if I don’t bare to be strong again.” “That state of mind will pass,” he answers her. “You must not encourage yourself in gloomy thoughts.” “How can I help, when you hate mol and are angry with me?”

“I am neither one nor the osther, Madeline,” he says, the familiar name falling unconsciously from his lips, and! she extends her hand to him with a faint smile. If he does not salute it as she has expected, he does not at once relinquish those small white fingers. Of course Miss Quenton does not condescend to explain her conduct to me, though She says, as Sir John and Wyniard ride away, and the metallic strokes of their horse-hoofs die out of our heaving, that Arthur is too easily wounded hv.

wards from her. lam inclined to ask if he would not naturally be wounded by such words from anyone, but remain silent. ' “Ho is very good-hearted, all the same/’ she adds, “though too anxious to please, everybody, too much all things to all men. Some call him a flirt, but that is too harsh a name; only an unsophisticated - ginl would mistake his attentions for intentions. I hope he will! marry one who oan worthily beai his title and old name. Society grows more and more exacting every year. Women of rank must know everything." She yawns, and turns over the leaves of Mr Harden’s latest hook. “I wonder how I shall enjoy Eric’s bitters diluted by you with the milk of human kindness, Violet ? I could almost construct a story myself out of the possibility of your falling in love with each other over the writing of your novel, and ending in another kind of partnership." “Don't, Miss Quenton, for the credit of our sex. Why should we women try to bring ridicule upon ourselves ? It sets my teeth on edge to read the stories in Which the ‘lady M.D.’ or artist, or what you please, ends by marrying her patient or professional rival. They are so untrue, they place noble work in so unfair a light, and falsity a woman’s motives so cruelly." 'Madeline onijjt curls her pretty lip with a compassionately scornful smile. “You often 'hear from Eric Harden, I suppose ?” “Only when business requires.” ‘iHe was an old lover of mine," she says, calmly. “I daresay he has told you that. I believe he was very angry when I engaged myself to Lord Wyniard. Poor Eric!”

I move to the window that she may not see my face, for I know it is pale. Do her words supply a motive for the crime cf that past night P Has not jealousy since the days of Gain led men on to murder? Oh, whither are my thoughts leading me? What possesses me that I can for One moment contemplate the awful possibility conveyed by this suggestion ? I remember my own prayer for mare light, with a trembling wonder if this be the answer. I can well believe that Erie loves Madeline, however hopelessly, and might resent the winning of her by another in impotent bitterness ; but can I believe that he would deliberately ask any woman to share a life darkened by so hideous a crime? It is an impossibility ; from which conclusion I draw some comfort, although that wild white face seen by moonlight looks through my .thoughts stall. I can scarcely doubt that the man, be he wfyom he may, passed me then, freshly from the commission of sin. iWhat wonder that bis appearance terrified me? Possibly but for my illness I should have heard of the tragedy just at the time, .and so would have told my midnight adventure. As it is, I fear to speak, ashamed as I am of my own oowardice. lam relieved when Lil enters with some question about Agnes Darriock, from whom I have received a kind letter, asking me to come to her in London and hear her plans before making any arrangement of my own. Madeline is a little shocked at the idea of a young lady living aloneShe returns to the subject when we are all together in the drawing-room, * and asks me if I reaVly mean to act as I have said. “Certainly," I reply.„ “I shall never gain power and insight without experience, and one must pay somehow for that."

Madeline looks up at Lord Wyniard with her soft and childish smile. “Why don’t men admiro independent women ?” she asks of him. “Because the independent women are so often unloving and unllovable, overconfident as to their own methods and views. Is there anything attractive in a person who never admits the possibility of being as mistaken as the rest oh us ? Independence too often means ‘my own way rough-shod over the feelings and wishes of others,’ and an intolerance of them. For my part, I believe in bearing each other’s burdens, which burdens often take the shape of unpleasing peculiarities, and defects of character.” ‘“But Yiolet is quite one of the advanced,” murmurs Madeline. “I can . picture her lecturing in rational dress and eyeglasses.” And then she rises, moving with slow grace to the piano, Lord Wyniard following. She plays well, and sings sweetly words of Henrik Ibsen’s, set to a 'plaintive melody .“E’en though I’ve shattered my skiff on the rocks, The vovage was sweet whilst it lasted.” is the refrain, which I find haunting me, though I wonder how many can he content with only memory. Madeline -lets tier, fingers leave the keys with a sigh. She raises her eyes to Lend Wyniard, ' murmuring something about the beauty and truth of the words: then graciously asks me to take her place, and *• is much astonished when I confess my inability -to play or sing; so ailso is Mrs Quenton, and support-' wefa- other, in a* little dialogue of amaze, ah the end of which - Madeline drifts into the melody of “Love’s Golden Dream.” ■ \-~“How will Yiolet get on without even such everyday accomplishments as playing and singing ?” eho asks, pityingly, of Lord Wyniard. “Yery well, perhaps, since talent and birth have equal privileges. ”

“Let us hope so," says. Madeline, gouty. “After all. she is not responsible for her own shortcomings, and time may moderate her aggressive independence.”

“I don’t find; anything aggressive in Miss Grant.”

“I don’t suppose you do. What a pretty valse this is," she says, playing more sortly an air he has heard from those fingers in the past. Some tender remembrance, some sweet hope, stirs in its sleep, and Lord Wyniard locks more kindly upon the face he well might deem as false as fair.

It is on this evening that Mrs Quenton says" she has had a letter from Sir David Crombie, who has arrived in Scotland, and she thinks LAI might invite him here as otherwise he will be so terribly lonely, and really he was so kind to us at Ems; to which suggestion Lady Lorimer readily agrees, saying that probably he and Eric will be glad to meet again, it being understood that Mr Harden returns to Kiitartan about Christmas. «

That season draws nearer and nearer. Great branches of holly and fir have beau brought in and decorate the house, and tin ough vapours dense and grey the cuiys go ou. At the appointed time Mr Harden arrives in his own quiet, unostentatious way. I have an epportunnicv of observing him unobserved, as he stands talking to Lord Wyniard, and Miss Quenton, who has just emerged from the hands of her maid fresh as a flower, dainty as a bird. I search every line of Eric’s face, which seems to me thinner and paler, and I see that the likeness Winch has cost me many a sleepless night is much less marked than I have thought. On, the relief of it! What a nightmare of oppression is lifted from me!

He and 1 meet as if we had parted yesterday, not more warmly. Sir John tells him of the advent of his kinsman, and he remarks that Sir David is' generally weld enough to tell us how ill he is, with the aii- of defending the absent to the utmost of his power. I observe that he studies Madeline in a leisurely, contemplative way, especially when Lord Wyniard is beside her, and she is guiding her voice through. the labyrinth of some new melody. She is again much surprised at my lack of musical proficiency, and bespeaks everyone’s pity tor me. Mr warden tells lhe in his own (dry way that he is glad that, at leaist I don’t hint at a remote past in which I did play beautifully, nor shake my head and sigh, and say that I never touch a piano now, implying that, for some fearful and mysterious cause Rubinstein’s laurels remain unsnatched. Later in the same week arrives Sir David Crombie, a long, thin, sallow, old man, who does not appear very well pleased at sight of Mr Harden; indeed, be asks him sharply if he is not supposed to live in London, to which Erio meekly answers that even a poor journalist sometimes gets out of the house of bondage. Lord Wyniard receives an even colder greeting, and all his warmth and geniality spend themselves in rain on the ice of Sir David Grombie. His attendant stands at his elbow during dinner, sprinkling each plateful with some compound from a silver cruet. Unlike Saneho Panza, Sir David does not resent interference with his food, hut explains to us how careful he must he in matters of diet, lecturing largely _on what tip eat., drink, and avoid. Notwithstanding these precautions, he informs us next morning that he has had a very had night, and is out of sorts yet, and knows that the turkey stuffing has upset him. He is positively certain it was the turkey stuffing.

‘Thaf'S quite a weight off our minds,” says Mr Harden, with a beaming smile. “Only heaven knows what we might have justly suspected!” “You literary men tliink yourselves very smart-,” retorts Sir David, Witheringiy. " , ~ “Necessity obliges us to be, says fr What is the name of that book of yours in whicli Sir David is one of the characters?” asks' Madeline, with a pretty air of interest and IMi Ilarden looks at her with an odd smile before he replies. (C X think ’the title is to Man, Miss Quenton; but we can easily settle the question by reference to the copy you were looking at yesterday. Madeline gives him back a smile, though her colour heightens. ‘You must read it, Sir David, she says; “and so shall I, just i!f Mr Harden has done you justice.’ # Sir David looks at his young kinsman, pleased, flattered, and gives him a nod. “Perhaps I shall draw your portrait some day. Eric. I suppose you will be surprised to know that I have written a book already.” „ ... , “Really ?” cries Madeline, with charming excitement. “Oh, Sir David, won’t you tell me where I can get it? I know it must be delightful. “It will not be published until 1 am dead,” says Sir David, with fitting solem“I hope you will be spared for many years,” says Mr Harden, so politely that the double entendre would have passed unnoticed by Sir David, but for Miss Quenton’s: “Oh,. Mr Harden, how can you be so sarcastic ? Really I think, that is too bad.” And she turns to Sir David, telling him not to mmd. “We all know that Mr Harden can’t help using the two-edged sword.”

„■ \ “I never do mind insolence," says the ! old man, glaring at Eric in a manner that contradicts his words; and there is a slight pause that probably /would become, painful but for Lord Wyniard, who suggests some music, and opens the piano invitingly. Miss Quenton favours us, and plays ! several accompaniments to Wyniard’s! singing. After his songs are over, he j still lingers, turning the pages, or watch- j ing the white fingers that flashy over the ; keys. Sir David looks on sourly, and j coughs a good deal. He explains to Lil that it is. bronchial.

“Do you enjoy the music?” she asks, thinking that he may perhaps appreciate i it to the extent only that Dr Johnson j did. | “Yes,” he says, rather grudgingly j “though it puzzles me how a man in j Lord Wyniard’s position really can sing I I think he might with decency wait un- j til the mystery of his brother’s -death is cleared up, and people have ceased to connect him with it.” !

The gross taste of this remark brings a cloud of annoyance to Lil’s face, but she recovers herself, ignores the offence, 1 declares that Mrs Quenton is casting “whistful eyes” at the card-tables, and soon a rubber is commenced. | I have u6ard Sir David’s remark, and am thinking about it, for it serves to bring me back to - my senses with regard to the night in Benotar. It is my plain duty to tell what I have seen, and the doing so may to some extent help to oleai’ Lord Wyniard. I resolve to take the first opportunity I can of telling him. j the person most concerned. j This occurs very soon. On the noon of the following day I see him reading in solitude, and go quietly in to the warm and cheerful room. I “There is something I am very anx- j ious to tell you, Lord Wyniard. and perhaps you would spare me a moment or two now.”

He has put down his book on my en- j trance, and now draws forward a fau-, fceuil, but I feel more at ease standing, and am not anxious to unduly prolong the interview. He remains in a similiar attitude, looking at rue with his own frank and pleasant smile. “Do you remember’ the date of our first meeting?” I ask, a sufficiently awkward beginning, but one must get over the stile somehow. “Perfectly,” he promptly replies, with an indefinable change of countenance, a mingling of many emotions in his dark blue eyes. It is not easy for me to resume. I have no desire to tell him. or anyone, of the. treatment I received on

that occasion from grandmother and Stephen, and I have to reflect on what I shall oay next, for a few moments, during which lie waits with an expectant attentive silence.

“I left home that night,” I say, at length. “I don’t wish to say anything beyond the fact that I had no friends, consequently nowhere to go for Shelter or sleep, and I walked from Stanekirk to Renotar, taking refuge in the woods there. I found my way to the private gardens, and I remained all night in a summer-house near the castle, in sight of its windows.”

Lord Wyniard looks as shocked as I have expected, and more sorry. “My dear Miss Grant,” he says, “unless you must, you should neither speak nor think of so necessarily painful an incident. It distresses you to relate it; it -distresses the friend who hears it.”

“But it is ‘must,’ Lord Wyniard, and I have been silent only too long. But for my illness, immediately following that night, everyone would have heard of what I saw.” And then I tell him what I did see

He listens eagerly and excitedly, though he asks me quietly enough if I am sure it was not a dream —not a fantasy of a troubled brain? On this point (the reality of what I saw) lam positive. “I was broad awake,” I tell him, “and my mind then quite clear. The man passed iso near me that I could almost have touched him, and if I see the face again I shall know it.” “You have not?” he asks, quickly; and, Mbaak heaven, I can truthfully an-sw-tff no. after which reply he is silent for some time. “Do you think the figure came out of my own brain, Lord Wyniard?” I ask him. “Do you think it was a delusion ? I am absolutely certain that it was not* I have not a morbid or unhealthy imagination, and I know that I was not? dreaming. Does a face seen in a dream remain so distinct in one’s remembrance ?”

He does not answer, but continues a. slow pacing of the room, thoughtful, abstracted, puzzled; finally comes to ai standstill beside me.

“You ate sure you could identify the man, Miss Grant ? ; A detective is still in my employ, and unless it is asking too rnudh, I should wish him to hear this from your own lips.”

“I will do anything to help in solving the mystery,” I reply, “and I will repeat my statement whenever you wish.” He walks up and down the room again, slightly troubled* -

“I n,m trying to look at it’ from, every point of view,” he says. “I desire that justice should be done. I naturally wish to be cleared of the suspicion which has attached itself to me. At the same time, I know that you will he closely questioned on a point that is painful to you, that how you came to be near Benotar at such a time at all.” “I am willing to answer. Is a little personal feeling to be considered before your "good name? My only anxiety is that the innocent, should cease to suffer because of my silence.” “You prove my good angel,” he exclaims, eagerly. “I thank Miss Grant, with all my heart !” He hasf extended his hand, and I give him my own. lam not prepared for hie raising it to his lips, and I wish he had not done so, for several reasons. The first matters only to myself; the otlrer is that Miss Quenton has just entered the apartment, and stands looking at us with the angry expression I have seen in her eyes before, on this occasion increased and intensified. She laughs; how harsh and unmusical is the sound. She looks at Wyniard with a little shrug, at me with another lower laugh, more insulting than words, and without speaking walks out of the room. ' Lord Wyniard has coloured hotly. He looks startled, and opens his lips as if about to speak; but before he can do so my hand is on the door, and I look back to remind him that it may be well not to .lose time in communicating with the detective, so leaving him, and ignoring Madeline’s action.

That young lady has retreated, laudably endeavouring to compose herself, and drive every disfiguring trace from her face. Storms seem the order of the day, for entering the library intending to soothe herself with “Molly Bawn,” she finds Sir David there, spluttering with rage over Erio Harden’s book. He has been sharp enough to detect a resemblance between himself and the old hypochondriac therein depicted, and is just at boiling-over point when Madeline comes in. She knows at once what is the matter, but has ready her own lovely smile, which is not without a Boothing effect on this senile worshipper of beauty. “What is distressing you* dear Sir David P” she asns sweetly.

“If you have read that disgraceful book, Miss Quenton,” he says, pointing to it, “you don’t neek to ask!” Madeline gives a tiny start.. “I came here just to hide it from you,” she says. “I only finished it last night myself. 'Oh. Sir David to think that I toid you to read it!” Sir David is softened by the tears she hides in her handkerchief, and the little Bob that completes her sentence.

“My dearest Miss Quenton,” he says, “don’t for a moment imagine that I •blame you. I really do not mind the puppy’s impertinence; especially as it is in my power to make him pay for it. It shall cost him dear!”

“Why should you care?” murmurs Madeline. “No one who knows you as I do could see any resemblance between that horrible caricature and you.” The last word is sweetness long drawn out, and accompanied by a swift glance from, liquid sapphire eyes. “How, then, did you know it was intended for me?” he asks, suspiciously. “I was told so,” answers she, simpily, with an innocent gaze. “How shall I forgive the person who told me ? Instead of ohe pleasure I expected, there was only disappointment and pain.” “Then you expected pleasure in reading about me?” he asks, sidling nearer, and Madeline looks down. “Do you remember what I said to you at Eons, Miss Quenton? I have not altered since then. It is still my earnest desire to have you for my wife. You might marry a richer and a younger man, hut you won’t easily find one who’ll make a kinder husband, and I have enough to satisfy all your reasonable wants.”

She does not reply. Silent and pale she looks before her, and Sir David’s grey eyes glitter. “Perhaps.” he says, cruelly, “you prefer the good-looking young nobleman, Who some day may be banged.” “Sir David, don’t! I have no wish to marry; it seems my duty to remain with mamma.”

‘Yet you accepted the other Lord Wyniard,” Sir David says, sourly. “To please her," Madeline replies. “She considered it a good settlement for me, and I suppose he liked me very much.” j'j -

“Perhaps you think me too old?” asks Sir David, grudgingly, and with a vindictive glance at ‘Mr Harden’s book, as if it has reminded him of his years. “Perhaps you think me too young?” she returns.

“I think you an angel. Do say yes or ho. Miss Quenton. You must- know your own mind, .and whether you or not.” *T am afraid your opinion of me is too high. Sir David. I am afraid of being selfish. And yet ” “Will you tell me to-morrow?” he asks. .“Do consult-your mother. You have had all the time since you left Eras to consider, and surely to-morrow you can give me a decisive reply. Indeed, I hardly owe.# to myselhto wait so long.” ! J .r “Only until .to-morrow,” murmurs Madeline, shyly, and then escapes'. All, except. Mr Harden, meet at five o’clock, Lil presiding at a fairy teatable, a huge ilace-shaded lamp softly shinning on the frailest of china and chastest of silver. Madeline is very

quiet and pensive and Sir David busies himself about her, handing her tea and cake, and warning her that one is had for the nerves and the other productive of dyspepsia., to the exclusion of Lord Wyniard from (carpet-) knightly service where she is concerned.

“Erie seems to have forsworn the nerve-destroying tea,” says Li-1. “A pity he doesn’t turn his talents to better account,” says Sir David, irrelevantly, suddenly crimson, and Madeline swiftly interposes with. “Will you give me one tiny hit of cake. Sir David? I am so fond of sweet things.” “You must be dear to yourself,” he murmurs, and Sir John, overhearing, exchanges a grimace with his wife privately, expressive of boundless admiration and awe at the old man’s gallantry. Madeline at length rises, and rather languidly murmuring something about flowers, glides with slow grace* into tno conservatory, the open door of which gives a vista of graceful green leaves and delicate bloom. Sir David tells us how unwholesome is the air of a hothouse, and Lord Wyniard, setting down his cup, walks calmly after her. He finds her at the extreme end, bending over a pot of pale, frail lilies. _lf prepared for a cold or hostile reception ho has been mistaken, for she looks at him with a smile. “I can’t decide what to wear, Arthur,” she says. / “May a have the privilege of deciding ?” “I thought you did that only for Violet Grant,” she replies innocently. “Ihn so sorry I disturbed you this morning."

“I am so sorry you went away as you did this morning. It was too had.” “It was too had, as I had come to ask your advice on a very important njatter. And there you were, too pre-occupied to do more than see me, if you even did “What wonderful thing had you to ask me? What may I do to please or servo you> Madeline?” She looks up and down like a shy schoolgirl, extends the “white wonder of her hand” to pluck a flower, sighs a little, then says ingenuously and simply: “Sir David Crombie has asked me to marry him.” Wyniard starts and stares, laughs, then flushes.

“Should you tell me that, Madeline?” “Y.es; because I want you to advise me what to do.” Lord Wyniard draws hack. He looks all at once cold and stern. Good heaven, that she should for one moment hesitate! * . „ “There are your mother and caster, 110 says, in a voice that has ail the genial warmth of a March east wind. “Why do you not consult them rather than me ?”

“They would 'only tell mo to please myself,” replies Madeline, with the same engaging innocence. “As you certainly will. The very fact that you find it necessary to consider the bill man’s proposal even for an hour suffices me. I assure you that anything I am likely to say will not influence you in the slightest!” He has spoken with heat, and Madeline flushes an indignant red. “You are most insulting, Lord Wyniard f” she exclaims. “I assure you I shall never forget or forgive the impertinence of your insinuation!” She passes him swiftly, her head erect. After an interval he follows her, dark and sullen.

This evening is an unusually quiet one. Conversation flags, and Madeline declaring herself unable to sing, plays only the most melancholy airs, and Lord Wyniard keeps as far from the instrument as he can without leaving the room altogether. “Why so pale and sad mine Erie?” murmurs Sir John into the ear of Mr Harder, who promptly responds that we are never merry when we hear sweet music.

“That isn’t true. Our greatest joy is the sound of your voice,” replies Sir John. Ho looks at Lord Wyniard’s downcast profile, and wonders if there is thunder in the air.

“In the heiress, I think,” says Mr Harden, pleasantly, with a glance at Miss Quenton. “Something is wrong somewhere, anyhow,’’ declares Sir John, lucidly. “Sir David looks like bottled lightning, too.” “His senses are failing,” says Mi" Harden, compassionately. “I have spoken to him several times, and he has neither seen nor heard me, and altogether acts as if he ‘don’t believe there’s no sieh per-

son.’ ” “By Jove, Eric, what does that mean?” asks Sir John, with concern, to which Erio replies that probably he will know soon enough. When Madeline leaves the piano, she comes to me, placing herself on a lounge beside me. _ ~ . “I am so sorry I disturbed you this morning, Violet,” she says, gently. “Really I did not know how inopportune I was, and I hope you are not dreadfully angry.” “I don’t find life long enough for anger.” . „ , “That is very sweet of you, ’ she. retries ; then slipping her hand into mine, whispers. “Am I the first to congratulate you?” Naturally I ask her on what, and she shakes her head reproachfully. “0 Violet! But perhaps you mean, that one should rather congratulate Wyniard. and you certainly are a courage-

ous gild to accept a mqn under so heavy a cloud.” I turn and look at her, at the melting loveliness of her blue eyes, the soft smil bigness of her lips, failing to find the sneer I have fancied in her tones. | “I am so pleased, dear Violet,” she j adds. ‘You and I will be better friends than ever since you have won a friend so j dear as Arthur Scrope.” j “You are mistaken,” I emphatically assure her. “There is not the slightest probability of that. Madeline. Please do not say it. It is not true, and you have-no reason to suppose it.” . j She smiles with an air of charming incredulity. *T daresay it is wiser to keep your own counsel, dear, in the. meantime,” she says; with this leaving me to subdue my natural annoyance. How I wished Lord Wyniard had not expressed his gratitude quite so warmly!, And why should he? Will the answer- ; dug of a few direct questions he so ter- j rifio an ordeal ? j It comes on me with the suddenness of lightning, a startling, fearful thought, l and f or a moment the room and the lights and faces are blotted out; then all is clear, and rest is mine again. What matter if suspicion is transferred to myself? What, after all, to any of us in the faith are the judgments of men ? They are the lightest and the least of the crosses we must bear. CHAPTER X. A sharp, clear morning? -and I am looking over my latest addition to our story, when Mr Harden comes in. and spreads bef ore him a ohaos of MSI notes, foalsoap and pens. There is one fragment of news I have been longing to tell him without appearing to force my own concerns upon his notice, and I am glad When he gives me the opportunity by asking me

what progress I am making outside of our mutual work. I had written a little dramatic piece, a one-act play, and it has been accepted by Miss Adelaide Verrard for what she calls a “curtainriser,” and this I tell him.

“Why did you send it to her?” he asks, after a very short pause. “She is the only actress I know anything about.” “Do you know anything about her?” he asks, in his mildly aggravating way. “I mean that I heard Agnes Darrioch speak about her, and she seemed less formidable than some of the great actormanagers. Besides, women will help women.”

“Will they? Well, Miss Grant, I am very glad of that bit of success. I always thought you had dramatic power. I shall certainly be present when your first play is produced." “I have never been in a theatre,” I tell him, and lie smiles. What he may bo about to say I don’t know, for the do-or of cur sanctum is abruptly opened, and Sir David walks in. There is something in his appearance that always suggests granite to me, from the greyish whiteness of his complexion _ and hair to the hard unmeltingness of his eyes. Today he looks more stony than ever. “I have *a few words to say to you, he begins, addressing Mr Harden, and taking not the smallest notice of me. “We had better go elsewhere then, Sir David. We are disturbing Miss Grant,” -says Eric. “It will do Mies Grant no Harm to hear a little of the truth about you and yoS prospects,” returns Sir David, “She is not much interested in either,” eays Mr Harden, calmly. , I have risen and moved towards the door, but as there is no nglit-of-way

through'-or over Sir ©avid, lam obliged to remain standing. “You have considered yourself my heir,” Sir David says, something taunting in his tone, and a dull colour creeps into Eric’s face, then fades away. “Since you bade me do so, possibly I have,” he replies, unruffled. “And possibly you have traded on your prospects! Well, sir, I have changed my mind with regard to that.” “I am obliged by your consideration in telling me so soon, Sir David. Another man might have lef t -me to learn it from his will.” “I don’t wish you to suppose,” Sii David returns, evidently provoked by liis young kinsman’s imperturbability, “that your insolent caricature of me in that scurrilous book has anything to do with my action. I am not swayed by your ungrateful insolence in the slightest. I can afford to treat it with scorn, and I do. It is not worth my while to notice it in any way, and I tell you o; your ailtered position only through my own sense of justice. It is greater Kindness than you deserve. I am engaged to bo married, and I shall take care t lnt at my death every penny I possess shall go to my wife.” “That, of course, Sir David, is only as it should be. Do I know the lady?” “You have that honour, sir. ALss Quenton is my intended wife. Yes, iVLss Quenton,” he repeats, in reply to u;e astonished look in Eric’s face, and then he adds, after the ensuing silence: And I wish you to understand that-neither ■before nor after my marriage are you to enter a house of mine. I would preier not to have anything to do with you .n any way whatsoever.” Mr Harden merely give© an acquiescent bow. As Sir David opens the door to go, he says, quietly and composedly: “As long as we are under the same roof. Sir David, ordinary courtesy towards our host and hostess will oblige us to treat each other with something as nearly approaching civility os we can manage.” The old baronet makes some inarticulate reply, and goes away. Air Harden resumes his seat, fastening some loose sheets together. Much more slowly I follow his example. To . me/it is incredible that beau til ill Madeline Quenton should have engaged herself to this old man. with his querulous complaints, his narrow self-gratifica-tion. The thought fills me with a kind of herror.

“Do you think it is true, Air Harden?” I ask, and he looks at me a moment. or two in the deliberate way peculiar to him before he replies. “I am sure it is perfectly true. They are both to be congratulated. Union is strength in money as, in other things.” “I am sony I heard what I did,” I say, rather Namely, but he grasps my meaning quickly. ‘•'Never mind that. One day I lose a heart, another day a friend, to-day i fortune. Still, if. as I am often told, I am my own enemy, there is a chance of my proving someone else’s friend.” In my own mind I wonder if this lightness is assumed, if this disinheriting of him is a serious change for him. He catches me surveying him, and smiles. “.No; I can afford to laugh at the latter loss,” he replies, just a© if I had spoken. “My pen has provided for my old age, and I owe no man .anything, t have never craved for -Sir David’s dearly loved siller.” “But why, after all, did you caricature him, Mr Harden, an old man and your relative?” Ho draws some meaningless lines on the paper before him, as if debating whether or not ho should reply. At length he ©peaks. . “To tell you, and you alone, the truth, the resemblance was accidental. The ■book was written before I had met him, and after it never seemed worth while to alter it. I don’t think ho would have detected the likeness if. it had not been pointed out to him.” “Yet you did not explain that to him.”

‘•'He might not believe me; he might attribute a wrong motive to the explanation. It is sometimes, as good to let ill as to let well alone.” And then he takes up his pen with a quiet resumption of work that says much for his self-command and discipline. This, think I, is a man who can bravely front any crisis of bate or fortune, who can support the weaker and less reectiute 1 with his own strong calm. His repose is power in its highest development. Dear are these days, fraught though they are with new pain for me, who scarce dare think of the inevitable separation, the lonely future which will see renewed a severer struggle for self-conquest, a myriad- of#new memories and associations against me, and the knowledge that my sacrifice of him was mistaken and vain.

“Where is Sir David?” asks Lib who has missed that genial presence for some time, and Miss Quenton looks up from her novel with a faint blush. “He is with mamma, dear.' I fancy he will have something td tell you to-day A “A new ailment, or the evils of a favourite dish?” asks Sir John, but Lil looks at her sister with big anxious eyes. “You don’t mean that he is going to marry mamma, do you, Madeline?” she asks, at Which Sir John roars, but Miss Quenton looks very angry. “No, I don’t mean that,” she replies, Sharply, “as you very well know, Lil.

But I do mean that he will marry me, if mamma will consent.”

shr John gives a long low whistle. Lil stares incredulously, then lets her head drop on her arms with a little sob. “Lilian, don’t be so babyish,” ©ays Lilian’s sister, “so absurb, so ill-bred.' Then, sharply: “Please don’t remain in that ridiculous attitude. I hear someone coining, and you look positively theatrical’.”

Poor little Lady Lorimer straightens herself, and the someone proves to be no less than Sir David, who comes in with a smirk, advances to Miss Quenton. and takes her hand with an awkward bow : then turns to the Lorimers and ados their congratulations with an air of undoubted triumph. The tableau is increased by the entrance of Lord Wyniard and Mr Harden, just as Sir John mutters something conventional, whilst Lil stands white and speechless. Her eyes travel from the gaunt, grey old man, his hands tremulous, his figure bowed with age, to the handsome many face, the youthful vigour of Arthur Sciope, and then they fill with tears. He too stands speechless. Is it indeed possiblo that this girl will give her iliio and all to the wasted, decrepit being beside her? that she will yield up her youth and beauty to one upon the brink of the grave, with whom she oan scarcely have a thought or hope or desire in common ? To him the sight is at once pitiful, revolting, maddening. He does not know what ho says, if ho speaks at all, and a® soon as lie can retreat©. After an interval Sir John follows him, finding him dejected and alone. “Well, Arthur, what is the matter?” he asks, though well! ho knows. “The curse of fidelity. Jack.” “Good heavens! And here is a girl who jilts you for your brother, and before the grass has grown over him, engages herself to a man old enough to be iier grandfather! Wyniard, yours is a monstrous infatuation.”

Wyniard does not reply. He is not even roused to resentment.

“There are others more worthy of you, not far away, if you could but ©ce it, my old friend,” ©ays Sir John, in his kindness.

“I know. To reverso Newman’s words, I know where my reason is if my heart would but fallow. What is the use, though, of talking about these things? I shall go away, and perhaps when she is Lady Crombie I shall be cured. It will not be before.”

“I don’t suppose anything will happen to prevent this marriage,” says S-r John, grimly. He has advised Lil not to interfere, hut to allow matters to take their awn course.

Meanwhile Air Harden ha© gmeof-vniy offered his congratulations to the aitui Lady Crombie, and Madeline raise© her blue eyes to his with all the light of other days. His face is turned to ii'-rs calm and impassive, for the old bon dais at an end. and his only thought o her is akin to Andrea* Del Sarto’s of ids Lucrezia —if with that perfect face (lie had but brought a heart! “Congratulations. are in the air,” says Miss Quenton. “Last night I offered mi-no to Mies Grant, and through her to Wyniard.”

“Were not you a little too previous?” “I don’t know. 'Of course. Violet does not want it talked about yet, as you can easily understand.” “I cannot; since any girl migbbfcbe proud of being Arthur Sc ropers fiancee. “But every man is not under so heavy a cloud.”

Air Harden laughs u little, looks at Aladeline oddly, then afar. “Should you ever write a novel,” he says, airly, “I fancy your most vivid descriptions ’will be of the trees in a deerforest.”

“A very ingenious way of telling me that what I have said is imaginary or untrue! You were not always so rude to me.” “One must either deteriorate or improve, I suppose.” Sir David has been looking on at this conference from a distance with a cloudy brow, and Madeline wisely cuts it short gliding across the room to tell him sweetly that everyone is so pleased about “our engagement,” which is not strictly true. Though Lil refrains from a full expression of her feelings, in compliance with her husband's request, she asks her sister imploringly if she really does prefer Sir David to Wyniard, who is devoted to her yet.

“He does not say so, in spite of your open championing of him,” replies Made* line, “and I have given him every encouragement.” “But how could he, so soon after his brother’s death? Besides, I know that he is waiting for the solving of that mystery. He is too proud to ask anyone to share a name on which the slightest shadow rests, you especially, who taunted him with that shadow.” “I don’t think there is as much false sentiment in him, and I do think the future Lady Wyniard is Violet Grant. She has played her cards very well,” declares Miss QuentonWyniard is preparing for a long cruise in his yacht, the “Eila,” and one day “his man of business” arrives to consult him on some-little matter, and possibly only I know-that the man of business is a detective; ?< :

As Igo to the library in reply to his Lordship’s brief courteous note, I feel glad that I- shall escape Miss Quenton’s comments and questions, she having gone out driving with her mother and Sir David. It is to me a real relief.

Lord Wyniard and the detective await me. The latter is polite, but I feel that lie “sees to the roots of my hair,” and if he does not cross-examine me very closely, he makes up for that by the fixedity of his gaze. I relate my experience in Benotar with as clear a description of the man as I can give, and I am shewn a sketch of the castle and gardens, on which I am asked to mark the window by which I saw him leave:. This I do to the best of my remembrance, and also point out the spot where I rested, and the shrubbery where lie disappeared, Lord Wyniard looking silently on. “Did you not think he was a burglar ?” asks the detective, and when I reply that he was too well dressed, asks another question: “Didn’t you consider it advisable to alarm the household ?” “I was not capable of thinking clearly about anything.” “Miss Grant has already explained this' to me,” Lord Wyniard interposes. “Do not ask her any unnecessary questions.” “Certainly not, my lord. Of course, Miss Grant, you had no special reason for going to Benotar that night ?” “Except that I oould not walk any further, and felt in some way protected by being near a dwelling-place.” “I can scarcely understand,” he says, musingly, “why, seeing a man leave the house at such a time and in such a way, you did not give the alarm.” “It seems strange to myself now.”

“Miss Grant wag ill with brain fever immediately after, Lawson,” Lord Wyniiard again interrupts.

“I understand, my lord. And now, Miss Grant, have you seen anyone in any way resembling the man since that night ?” “I have seen one person who slightly resembles him,!’ I reply, at which Lord Wyniard gives a slight start, and Lawson strokes his bhin.

“You are certain they are not one and the sar/ie?” he asks.

“I am quit© certain. The person 1 have seen is above suspicion.” . “Do you object to mention his name or to say where you have seen him? It will help me to form a better idea of the .appearance of the criminal.” I reject for a moment or two, during which I feel that he is looking very closely and keenly at me. Lord Wyniard keeps his eyes upon the ground. “There is a resemblance between the man I saw and Mr Eric Harden,” t answer. “Both are pale and dark, and wear the hair alike; that, I think, is til tue resemblance. The features are different in profile, and Mr Harden is taller to the best of my remembrance.”

“You would,; know the first persjui again, without mistake?”

“Yes. I can see him now if I dose iny eyes.” “Very well. I don’t . think I need

trouble you any more, Miss Grant. A letter addressed to Lady Lorimetr will •find you?” be asks, suavely. ' “Yes, or to my publishens.” “Thank you I I may have to call upon you for identification,” ‘he says, in explanation of his question. Lord Wyniard opens the door for me, and thanks me as I pass out, warmly; and then he goes back to the table at which Lawson sits, looking over his notes.

“Well,” he says, “what do you think of it?”

“It is a very strange case, my lord,” replies-the man, beating a. little tune on the table. “By was Mr Harden in Scotland at the time of. the murder?”

“He was not. If he had been, -what tben ?” asks Wyniard. v “Nothing, my lord, except that lam puzzled. Miss Grant has explained to your satisfaction how she came to be on the spot ?”

“To my entire satisfaction.” “It' singular coincidence that she should be there on that occasion,” says Lawson. “Was the quarrel with her relatives her own fault or theirs?” “Theirs, lam sure. It has nothing to do with Wyniard’s death, in either case.” Lawson surveys vacancy thoughtfully. “She and Mr Erie Harden are good friends ? She has no spite against him ?” “Certainly not. What has that to do with it ? What do you mean ?” “Had she any personal acquaintances with thef late Lord Wyniard?” pursues the detective, trying to find the thread of motive for many stray beads of fact. “Not the slightest. I hope lam mistaken the drift of your questions, Lawson. You will oblige me by keeping Miss Grant out of this business as much as possible. You will have to search for the person answering her description without giving her- further trouble,” says Lord Wyniard, rather peremptorily, and the detective remains a short time silent.

“I confess; my lord/’ at length says he, 'that lam likely to be baffled. If not, the issuei may be painful to you.” “You mean that you suspect someone?” . “(My lord, do hot you yourself ?” asks Lawson, gravely. “I am completely in the dark. Speak out man!”

“Hoes it not occur, to your lordship that this young lady- knows very much niore than she will tell ?” The angry blood flies up to Lord Wyniard’s brow, and his dark blue eyes flash. .

“This Is what I feared,” he says, sternly; “but if I had been certain that in oailling you here to-day I was exposing that young lady to a most unjustifiable and revolting suspicion, you would never have heard another’ word from me. You do well not to mention her by name in such a connection. Are you mad? This statement was made by her voluntarily ; and if she had any reason to f ear the truth, she would assuredly have kept her own counsel, since no one - knew otf her presence there.” (£ lt wks so, certainly, my lord,” Law- " con admits, meekly; but when he is alone he-smiles'with some pity and a little amusement. ’ “How do we know that she was there alone?” he asks of his inner self. “I may be wrong-; but I shoill certainly run the risk of keeping my eye on Miss Violet Grant.”'

Lord Wyniard tells me that the detective is not very sanguine, but I knew that his depression is not altogether dne to this. Of me he takes a friendly leave, with many a kind and encouraging word, with many a cheerful prediction for me. His own cares never make him forgetful of others. He parts from Miss Quenton calmly and in presence of us all. She. I think, is remarkably cool to him. _ The little house-party is breaking up. Sir David is on the eve of departure, and Mil* Harden is on the point off . starting for “the lone soft island- of fair-limbed kine” I also shall shortly leave for London, rest 'over, harder work begun. Aignes Darrioch.has invited me to spend my first few days with, her, and I have gratefully accepted. “There will be changes, probably, before we all meet again at Kiltartan,” says Mr Harden to me. (To be Continued.)