HIS OWN ENEMY.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1680, 11 May 1904, Page 5

HIS OWN ENEMY.

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

CHAPTER XIII. y Although the day has been bright, the evening is overcast, dark and threatening, with coppery rims to the clouds. There is a heaviness iii my heart, a sadness in my soul, that may he due to atmospheric influences, but owe some thing of their being to my anxiety about Madeline. All day she has seemed excited and strange, starting at every sound, flushing and paling by turns without visible cause, her hands tremulous, a wildness in her large blue eyes that troubles and perplexes me. At dinner these symptoms are more marked, and I am relieved when she suggests going to rest, and hope that only feverish headache may be the cause. She has avoided me aid day, and I have no opportunity of seeking her confidence, if she would give, it. After she has gone, I read to Sir David until he falls asleep, and then I wander out, a dull pain across my own temples. Heavy and op presive is the evening. I walk through the shrubbery, where last year’s fallen leaves still lie in dank moist masses, the tall bracken and the long grass swaying, although there seems no breath of air. Afar I see the sheen of the look “dimmer than the last smile that strives to teil'l of love gone heavenward.” Awestriking is the brooding silence, the angry light, the tempestuous sky. Swiftly and darkly is night’s shadow falling. I have been standing still, looking before me, my thoughts far away, when a figure crosses the path, entering the isunnner-iiouse on my left. For a mom-, ent I cloubt my own eyesight, hut only for a moment. In the next I know that I have seen Madeline. Why should she not oomie out? But why so closely muffled ancl so stealthily ? I recall not only the strangeness of her manner today, but the many wild words I have hoard her utter, the unhappiness of her life with a sudden terror. What foolish, desperate step does she contemplate? I hesitate only for a few seconds, during which these questions pluck at my heart, and then I 'hasten after her, reaching the shelter breathless. She wears a heavy dark cloak, and she has just laid a smalt! handbag on the seat beside her. She turns quickly as I enter, the name “Arthur” falling from her lips involuntarily. As our eyes meet a deep blush overspread the paleness of her face, her hands drop to her sides, and she stares at me in evident consternation and surprise-, then in angry impatience.

“Why do you follow me?” she demands. “Am I not free to walk in my own grounds for one hour without your intrusion ? Go back to the house. What right have you to watch me?” “Madeline, what have you eoine here for?” I ask. more than ever ail armed.

/That concerns myself. Will you leave me in peace, Violet? I don’t want to talk. I want to he let alone. It is too bad of you. Do go back to the house; and you needn’t tell Sir David that I am out. I shall he better presently. I wanted a breath of air.” She pours forth these sentences in a hurried, incoherent manner, one hand on my shoulder in a gentle endearo-ur to push me away, whilst she glances continually ' in another direction, as if watching for something. “Tell, me why you are here,” I persist. “Oh, trust me, Madeline. I won’t betray you, but I can’t leave you. You mean to do some rash and foolish. thing, and now can Igo away, knowing it? Why -have you come here dressed like this ?”

“If you go baok to the house you will know in half an hour,” she replies, angrily. “You have no right to interfere with me. Do you hem* me? lam mistress here, and I sav you must leave me! I am tired of you all!”

“1 will not go,” I reply.' I grasip her burning hand in my Own. Is she mad ? Does she contemplate self destruction ? “I will not go unless you tell me your purpose.” She wrenches her hand away, and looks at me with a definan/fc desperation. “I will tel! you. then,” she says, “and you can betray me if you like; it wiill not make the slightest difference. lam going away with Lord Wyniard. Take Take back that news, if you will. _ No one can prevent mef I recoil with a ory of incredulous horror. She, beautiful Madeline Quen-t-ou, to tell me this of 'herself, of him whom I believed so strong in honour, so lofty, so pure 1 Lord Wyniard, the chivalrous gentleman, to sink to depths of vileness such as this!! She turns a little paile, and her bosom heaves; but she throws her head back with an unquailing gaze, and a hard setting of her mouth.

“I know it is very dreadful, but I don’t care,” she says. “He will be here soon, and if you will not go away the consequences may be unpleasant. What do you think you can do-?”

Does she know what she would do? Does she realise the sin and the shame, the degradation of her own secs, the lowering of his? Has she forgotten that she is Lil’s sister, and another’s wife? X fiing myseilf on any knees be-

fore her as one who begis far more than life.

“0 Madeline, no! for the love of God, for the love and honour of womanhood do not bring such shame cm yourself, on the mother who bore you, on Lil and her little children!”

“Wiho-t have they to do with me ?” she | demands. “What do they care about ; lnet” j ‘You know! You know -how they will j suffer through you, through the dis- j grace and shame and reproach that will' be yours for ever. Whatever you suffer now will not last for sorrow .is always . passing. Oh, bear it for a little while, j or, if you must leave your husband,: leave, him in honour. Appeal to your j friends, seek their protection and advice, take refuge with them. Yes, rather come to the -little home I can make, Madeline. I would work for you gladly, joyfully, to save you from this' sin!” j She stares at me strangely. Her eyes fall. She says in a less steady tone, than before that it is too late, and I cry to a greater Power than mine to sav© her ■ from this disgrace. j “Disgrace!” she echoed. “Wyniard ! will make me his wife as soon as possible, -and,l am willing to wait, until then.”

From my Sips fall those strong, terrible words of Scripture which admit but of one interpretation and convey but one meaning, and over her* face, her very heck, flows a crimson tide of shame. In that blush I find hope that right may yet prevail. I clasp my arms about her, poor weak, faltering creature, and lay my face against hers. “Dear, you will not go. You will not throw away soul and body like this. Better a few years of. unhappiness her-e than eternal remorse -and loss. Go to Lil, to your own loving, tender sister, if you cannot live here; but keep at all costs your own purity, your own honour. Go home; help and courage will be given you, lor surely Omnipotence can sustain weakness. Go back, for the loveof all that is sacred and good!”

She is crying now. in a stir , tow, pitiful way, and I. keep my arm about, her, so leading her unresisting to the shadow of the firs. Here she halts, wringing her bands * ■ .

“I can’t Violet. I can’t 1 I left a letter for my -husband, and if he has got it, hew shall I face him?”

“But he has not; he is asleep. Hasten home and destroy it before he wakens. You have not been missed. Hasten back while there is time.”

She looks at the grey old house with & shudder.

“It is something, indeed, to live for! Why should I give up Wyniard at your bidding ?”

“Will you force me to ory for help against you, to make known so hho wrong you would do ?” I ask, and then she trembles and sobs. Her reproaches and appeals do net touch me. I am stronger in mind and body than is she. and the strongest usually prevails. “I shall he forever at your mercy and in your power!” she exclaims. “Better in mine than in his.” I answer. and she sobs that Arthur would be kind to her. I ask -her if she thinks he will nevei- knew remorse, never reproach her for the ruin of his life, never dome to despise her for her infidelity? I ask her if Eve should trust the tempter, and what is to result from a union against which heaven has set its mandate ? . * ‘You can humble me to the dust when you choose.” she evades. “If I offend you. revenge is in your hand. How shall I bear that?” “You will never have it to bear. You do not believe that I am so cruel and cowardly,” I tell her, and she looks beseechingly at me. “But let me say good-bye to him, let me tell him that we must not meet again,” she pleads. "“Let you return to tempation, let you return to his persuasion ? No! He must take your absence for good-bye; unless you choose that I shall see him. and tell Kim from you that the weakness is over, #hat you have pity for the man who trusts you and whose name you bear, that you can guard your own honour, and that you will not- make those near ?vd dear'to you blush at your name.” She sighs deeplv: them she starts, aa if suddenly remembering something. “It is no use,” she says. “You canftfa help me; you can’t save me. I have committed myself too far. I . told him that omilv force should ..keep mo from

meeting him, and ihe declared that lie would oome to tike house for me. He •will; and he will denounce me. He will accuse me to my (husband,, and then everything is lost! He would not better i you; he would insist on hearing it from my own lips. He would think you were conspiring with David. Oh, what am I do do, if you won’t let me see him Bowl”

' lam on the point of suggesting that I wait with her for Wyniard’s coming, wijm the danger of sudh a course asserts itself. Once in.his presence, with his protection, ©he can defy me, she will assuredly yield to temptation. On the other , hand, it is possible that he may keep his word, seek her at the house and betray her in his anger. He must by some means be got away from the neighbourhood, and a -.vague plan darts through my brain. * I unfasten her Cloak, and draw it about my own figure, she not resisting “I will meet him, pretending to be

you,” I say. “Go. and I will gain time for you! Go at once and destroy that letter. Waste no more time here.” “But if he follows?” she falters. “He shall not come to your husband’s bouse,” I reply, firmly. “I will prevent that at any cost. Do not be afraid. He shall not follow you.” "But what can you dp?” she asks. “I don’t know; boat I shall keep him from you until the danger is over. _ He shall know the truth when I think I may safely tall him.” “But you will never tell anyone else ?” she entreats. “Oh. Violet, I will do anything you wish if you will keep this ijecret 1”

“To my dying day. Go home, poor child. Giod bless and heF.p you, as He rill, if you only ask.” She lifts 'her streaming eyes to mine, and lays her arms about my neck.” “I have not been kind to you, Violet,” she says; “but you are a good woman. ; Oh, never tell how wicked I am!” And then she goes, hastening back, thank heaven, to her home. I return to the try sting-place, drawing the hood closely over my face. I secure it with my brooch that no mishap may reveail my identity, and I am grateful for the ever-increasing darkness. What - have I to lose? What have I to fear? I am one, alone and friendless. She has mother and husband and sister, who would share her reproach—her . dishonour tiheir’s. her shame thedr’s. I think of Lil, and her unfailing goodness. I think of her innocent little ones, and calm and courage are mine. The fever loaves my veins, the panic deserts my Ciind, though I hear through the silence that forebodes storm, a fast-ap- . preaching step, and feel as though some crisis of my life is come. Wyniard enters, fallen from his .high estate. I cannot bear .to look at him ; I cannot help shrinking from him. “Darling, don’t be frightened,,” he Bays. “We must not delay. Someone has been on the watch, for I saw a man ‘dart among those trees as I came up.” Have my endeavours been in vain ? Does Sir David know? Has he been a witness of my interview with his wife? I know not; my brain reels. Wyniard’s baste and excitement help my stratagem, land I do not speak or raise my head. As in an evil dream, I find any steps being guided down a steep rocky path to the shore. I hear his whispered encouragement. I hear the splash of oars and see the glitter of spray. Not yet dare I_ undeceive 'him. We are ‘ pulled through the shallower water. I am helped on board the “Eiila,” and my foot seems pressed not on her smooth white decks, but on my own throbbing burning heart. CHAPTER XIV. “Rise to thy peculiar altitude of doing ; , good, and of enduring ill.” Having been.on board the “Elia” before, I, of course, know my way, and - can dispense with Wynia/rd’s guidance, but He leads me into the cabin,, Sighted by lamps and bedecked with flowers to welcome Sir David’s wife. I have not been'able to overcome a feeling of revulsion, and it increases as I enter the fragrant 'little room with its plush bangings, its frail vases of lovely blossoms; truly the trail of the serpent is over them all. I sink down beside the table, resting my head and arms upon it with a shiver. I know that he is standing near me. I feel his presence through . the silence. - ‘ “Don’t bo afraid, Madeline,” at length be says. “No one can part us now.” I simply wave my hand towards the door; speak ’ I oanmot, did I dare; not yet, however, may I tell him how he has been foiled. - v- “Do-youvrish to.be alone, dear?” he Husky, in the soft, soothing tones I well ; fcnow, and I assent by a gesture. He obeys me at once, and I fasten the cabin door behind him then free myself from - the stifling folds of the cloak, and walk to and fro with my hands clasped behind my neck; for the future stares with stony eyeballs at me, and through :;- *]] I know is lost by this step one ; feico looks top clearly in its pale inten- ; Vfidty of scorn. What can. he believe of ane but the woi-vt ? His love I never had, but bis respect, his esteem, his % friendship were the sweetest flowers up•9U my pathway, ancLmy own hand has uprooted t&itn. O Elrio, now indeed a long farewell l I hear the rush of water and feel the > motion of the vessel, but these things : I as yet convey little meaning to me. My

thoughts go to Madeline, wondering how it is with her, hoping she has had time to destroy that fatal letter, trusting her intended flight has not been discovered, praying that for her light may come out of this darkness, that my advice may bear some fruit, and that she may see her action as it would appear to others. Who has been the watcher seen by Wyniard? lam afraid •to think, nor can I console myself by persuading myself that lie has been deceived by shadows, and only imagined some figure. His sight is too keen and sharp for that. Still. if that watcher has only seen me, what matter? If Madeline has got hack unobserved, my plans are but aided by this witness of my “flight.” I look at my position quietly and without fear. I shall return to London, hiding myself in its whirlpool. The old resource is still mine, fancy’s golden gates are open to me yet, though alii others are barred. To some extent I have repaid the debt of gratitude I owe Lil Larimer, though she will as littleknow of it as of the shame that threatened one dear tio her. The greatest danger in the future is that Lord Wyniard will net be silent. Is he, after all. so dastardly? Will his anger seek so despicable an outlet? 1 wonder what he will do with me when he finds me here. I am reminded of the time when I sat in grarid-mether’s parlour, awaiting Stephen’s judgment and sentence, truly not a merciful one. What on this occasion'will be my doom? I am in the power of a man who, though weak, is far from being wholly evil, who cannot surely have lost every shred of manhood. The past makes me hopeful of the present, and I do not live so far in the future as to be wholly overcome-. ' More than an hour has passed before I am disturbed. I have just looked at my watch when I hear Lord Wyniard’s step on the staircase, and then he knocks gently at the -door. For a moment or two I pause. I have feared that if he knew the truth at once he would return, and thereby thwart me. That danger is surely over now. I do not know what course is being steered, but Ardenlui must be far away. Therefore, I .unfasten the d-00-r, and walk calmly back to the table. We have come to the crisis, and the worst will soon be passed. “I don’t wish to disturb you,” he says; fC but you must tell me what you want, and what you would like ” Here his speech abruptly ends, for, having turned round from securing the door,. he naturally looks at the person he is addressing. Were I a spectre, a ghastly wraith, he could not show more horrified, bewildered amazement. “(Muss -Grant! What in the name of heavein -does this mean ?” he asks, and he looks round the little chamber as if he fancies Madeline somewhere in hiding. He even lifts the cloak. Letting it fall, ,he looks at me as I face him silently. “What, I say, does this mean?” he demands, peremptorily. “That some have remembered what you forgot—honour.” “Where is Madeline ? Where is Lady Orombie ?” he asks, coming nearer with one swift stride.

“She is sate; in the home you would have wronged. I have saved her, and not her alone, from shame, but the friend's who Jove and trust you, whose hearts had been broken by a daughter’s and a sister’s disgrace.” He is vary white, and he stands staring at me, nob in regret or remorse, hut with a still, deadly wraith. “Will you explain this masquerade?” he says, dragging each word through his teeth, and I do candidly enough. I tell him how I had found Madeline and persuaded her to return, - and -how I have taken her place lest he .should pursue her, and prevail on her to go with him, or betray hor in his baffled anger to Sir David, and the line of wrath deepens more and more. “Did she consent, then, to this trickery? Did she know what you meant to do?”'

“I did not know certainly myself.” “And what is to prevent me returning to her to-morrow, ay, any day, and undoing this clever scheme of yours?” “I will prevent you. Make . any further attempt and I will tell John Lorimer what your design is upon the sister •of his wife, the gird whose life is linked to ibis through Lil.” H© clenches one hand suddenly and squares his shoulders. “Our reckoning shop Id be shorter if you were -a man!” he says, hotly. ‘•‘l return the words: If you were a man, you had never tempted a weak unhappy wife, nor planned so deep a wrong to a defenclesis feeble old husband, nor thought to bring such misery to a sister and a mother, to make one dear to them a mark for the scorn of the lowest, far less wrong through -her the little children taught to love you, taught to honoui next to father, father s friend.” Sharp is the shaft, and it strikes home. An, THumistakaWe spa-sni of pain twitches hia lips, and the whiteness of anger momentarily gives way to tlhe crimson of solf-ropro&ioh. Then iiei {tr&gs his brows over his eyes, and looks as sternly at me as before. . «I ask you, did she consent willingly to this trick? Was shei willing that you should run the risk, take the pearl and its consequences?” “What are they? I am not afraid of you. I have told you that I hardly

knew -myself haw circumstances might guide me. Madeline knew only that I would save her, as I said, at any cost.” “Do you think you have done well to send 'her back to her unhappiness? How will your exalted mind feel if she escapes from her hard and hopeless life by suicide, seeing there is no other way ?” “Some oi your -house. Lord Wyniard, have thought death better than disgrace or dishouour. If they had hut made their chivalry an heirloom! Madelino’s life is not yet so bitter that she will end it. neither is she brave enough or fit enough to enter the other world before God calls her. When that summons shall come may you and your influence to evii be forgotten!” Hi 9 -face is darkened again by mingled anger and shame. What words of reply die unspoken Ido not know; with a hasty movement he leaves me, shutting the door behind him. and again I aan alone.

It is night now and stormy, the little yacht swaying on a restless sea, the sharp rattle of thunder heard above the noise of water and beating rain. Whither are we bound? What is to he my fate? Strange though i-t may seem, throughout this long and troubled night, wild with storm, I feel no fear; friendless, I have a Friend; orphaned, I have a Father mightier than all, and who oan give His angels charge over the least as over the greatest of His children; and I pass the long hours pleading for the woman who -has so nearly made shipwreck of her life, and who, cast upon her own stength, may yet drift into seas of peril.

By morning the elemental strife has ceased, though the sea is rough yet. I long for a breath of air; I long to be on land again. Does be mean to keep me here a prisoner? Shall I have to appeal for deliverance to the yachtsmen? I climb the stair with some difficulty, feeling a little weak and giddy, but the fresh breeze revives me. Winds have swept the sky clear -of all clouds save a few flying shreds of white. The waves rise and fall with silver crest. Afar is the green Irish coast folded in the living light of the young day. • “Your breakfast will be taken into your cabin, madam, whenever you wish.” I start, and turning find the steward at my elbow, civil, but excusably and naturally curious, and my cheeks bum as only those of the guilty are sup-

• posed to do. He looks demurely down, and I struggle to speak calmly and com- ■ posedly. “I won’t trouble you about that; but I you may tell Lord Wyniaird that I wish t to speak to him as soon as possible," I say, and I walk slowly along the deck, my head hared to the cool wind. Little thought I, when I stood here before with Madeline on that sunny summer day, how next I should see the “Elia,” under what circumstances I should again watch the moving scenery of the distant land! Some little time elapses before Wyniard appears. Comes lie in peace or comes he in war? He is wretchedly pailo and sad, witu heavy eyes that be« tray a night of sleepless watching. Has good or ill won the victory? His better self has surely triumphed; he seems again the Arthur Sorope of my first knowledge—‘helpful, kindfly, just. Angels might rejoice that he has yet grace to blush, that lie cannot meet my eyes, that his step is slow and reluctant. “Is it possible that you have not yet tasted food?” he asks. “I don’t want anything but my liberty,” I return. “Put me on shore, and that iis aid I desire.” “And what do you intend to do then ?’* “Return to London and my work.” “You abandon Madeline to her fate?” “I can never return to her home. But she 'has a sister and f riends to assist her through the dangers and difficulties of this crisis, and I will write to her the instant I can, to advise and direct her.” “And what of yourself ?.” he asks. “Have you no dangers or difficulties to encounter?” “Nome that I fear; none that I have not' foreseen,.” He looks seaward, with folded arms. The sob of the waves hills in a brief silence. “I deserve more than you said to me last night,” he resumes; “but I beg you to judge me and her with as little harshness as you can.” “I cannot, I do not, judge either of

you.” “It was madness,” he says, “madness into which she was driven by unhappiness, and Iby love of her, though I have tried my utmost to overcome that love.” “Is one cured of on infatuation by seeking the object of it?” I ask, and he does not at once reply to this-

. “I tliank God humbly,” he says, '“that you had strength and courage to stave her and 'me. As it is, I am' punished, for I cannot take any oldi Arienu’e baud again as before r .. Dad you believe, then, I came here for Madeline’s sa&e? Not -so-; I imagined -that -1 hud uprooted my affection -for her, that I had constrained myself to scorn her, and in coming to .Ardanhu I had hub one ohj ect—to seek you for my wu e. it ear me. Miss Grant, to the ena. I had determined to ask yoif to marry me. It I could not give you love, all the esteem

and liking in me were yours, all: the re-

verence one can give a noble woman, it seemed to me that with you lire might begin again, old griefs be iox-goaten, old losses be restored; through you .all amends be made. And then I saw hex:, so mlmnged, so sad, divided from me through my own fault, my own blind pride and anger and -distrust ——” n stops. Ho subdues by a viable effort much 'emotion. “Well. it is or. i'craa* endeavour <ond your app al have not been an vain, ..and I have renounced her.

I shall never willingly see u gain. ’ „ “Now you.are true to all tin . a rignt-. and good an you, Lord T.v .a u, and your reedshv©;. your .•sett-npnqXveat, will carry then* own grand comp aou. “I task yon, as I.asked you Hsl 'nignt,”; he goes on, '“if you had for seen tiie consequences of th : s step, x. ■ you-had. counted its cost? Did you know, cioyou think, how your own good name is imperilled?” “Surely; I chose the least of many evils. I have prevented a sin affecting * more than-one soul; xand th t my -igui. must seem wrong is the price I pay.” “But,” he says, “.the p> not be paid; the penalty may b • escapM. One reparation I c:n make. 1 can putthis right in the eyes of all. ; e my ■ wife; I entreat you for your own stake. for your own future, for your own good N. fame. You may well etkrin. <m me; you may justly think me u iwo thy. . ± admit that I am, hut I sc* enmly pleoge myself, to endeavour to c-asrrv you to shape my life by yours. Is not this the only alternative? You have be ti seen here; your being on hoard with me cannot be concealed.. Saving' others you have compromised yourself. I speak plainly, not to hurt your feelings, nor: to alarm or eoerce you, but for your good, to help you to the utmost, ire my wife; it is the only atonement I can make. Give me the. ch oice -of repairing this wrong. I promise 'that, i will not interfere with you, nor nt ude upon you. I ask you to take only the protection of my name , not the man who bears it.” “The world’s respect may go, but I will keep my own,’'’ I answer. “What do you wish me to understand by that?” . ~ f . ' “What I say. I shall never - marry that-people may speak well of me. Th y may believe and say the worst of me, nor shall T'blame them. God knows a1.1,s and in that thought is all the support and protection I need.”

“He had-better never have called me

into existence!” Wyniard bitterly expast, present, and to come, with all its .■unhappiness?” “Perhaps because of that knowledge. And how -.can you judge of -what, is hot-

ter -or best ? A man has fallen far when lie reproaches his Creator with the consequences of his own actions.” He stores gloomily at me, then throws hut his hands with an abrupt gesture. “Good heaven,” he exclaims, “do. you 3mow what will beisaid .of you? Do you ■know what even your dearest friend will -'think?” ■ ' .

“I .know. You cannot help it.; for ,1 ■wiCl not many you.” “But that is the only -way, the o-niy thing to be done unless I blow out my brains!”

“'■-One must not desert one’s peat uiru

■til the .saguail comes from the Groat -’Commander,’ ” I remind him; “and ‘there is something you may do beside; keep silence with regard to this. It . is all I ask.”

He colours moa-e deeply dilian ever, lie mottoes .and looks down.’ . ‘‘l deserve +liat. ’’ lie save:. “bn*- I om less of a coward and a villian than you Slave cause to think. This cannot be ioanceailed, but ,it will never be spoken i.bf by me, nor will 1 alow your name to be uttered in my hearing without ,d_ue honour .and - respect. Still, the world is.guided by appearance.” / :'■ “I ;am not speaking of .myself at all,” ST .tel him a trifle impatiently. “You have nothing to do with. me. I ask you to promise that you will not reveal the ’actual truth of this, that Madeline, net i. should have been with you.” He is silent a long time, then ihe’folds this arms with a kind. of desperation. “IfL knew all the future, 1 might • awake such a premise,” he says.; "but i say that I am , prepared to .see >yoiu hear for ever the .consequences of nniother’s lolly.' If .she is willing that you should, I am not. The sinner ..suffer-lor the sin, .not ;the .innoilcent.” kh “T s T/il Toss .innocent than. I P Are you ijpa'epacred to -see-her and .hens .-suffer ? fit -iiboose us you must, choose that ilhe .sufferer shall be -one who is alone m fthe world, ywhose troubles darken no jobber life, : whose, mistakes ; carry no conisequeaihes’ lintd idther khomes, diadow no bother, name.” _ , / : , . “H-you would marryme; the difficullty ,is over, the problem solved.” "I cannot many-you,V I reply, add iheileokis -more .keenly .at in©. : ; "Ho.you know that this may be an

everlasting harrier between you, and the worthier, better man who may love you.-and whom you may choose in later years'?” “My -choice was made long ago. Lord Wyniard,” I answer, quietly, “and already between him and me is alii that heed be to keep us apart.” Tip and down the -deck lie paces, and I£l train my eyes shore wards. Why will he not let me go? What other thing remains to be done ? What else is to be said?

- “I wish you would consider my proposal,” he says-, returning to me. “Believe me, I shall nevm force myself upon you, ,or curtail your freedom in .any way. At least promise me this: Should the burden prove too heavy, should you need such help us I can give, promise to ask .it. Let me cany or late do something to right this wrong.'’ “One hardily knows what one will do in the future. I cannot promise anything. 1 nope you will keep away front Scotland ; and ail I ask now* is to be set free.” ‘You shall not he detained a moment longer than is necessary,” lie assures me. “We are making for the shore now.”

Once again I descend to the cabin, and finding writing materials at hand, begin a letter to Madeline, who- will have to account for my ahs nee in some way. 1 tell her what has occurred, promising to write to her when I reach London. .At this point. I pause to consider whether I shall 1 return to the rooms I share wntli Agnes -or seek a fresh abidingplace. Agnes may decline my compuninadhip on the one hand; on the other, ■something is duo to myself. At least; until her return I shah go back to the o-niy home I have. Here another problem presents itself. How* am Ito get. ihere? My purse is, of course, at Grombi i House, and I have not a penny with me. Here is a difficulty to he overcome I know not how. Time, I have my watch ; but shall I be able to dispose of iit in tlie port for which we are making ? Weil, I must at least try. How like one setting her house in order before death do I fed!! When shall we reach Land? At what a distance it seems. "Gan I trust Lord Wyniard’s word, or are we indeed going farther and farther away ?

• Madeline, carried out of herself and her purpose by the force- and earnestness of Violet, hastens hack to the house, and enters it by a low glass door opening on to a wilderness of dwarf ted evergreens; for a few* seconds she stands, holding her breath .and listening intently, but there is no sound to indicate that her absence has bean discovered; the house is hushed and quiet. As elia passes the library, she sees Sir 'D wid fast asleep with a plaid about his ■shoulders, and drawing a long breath of relief, .she goes upstairs as softly as possible. The key of her room is in its. hiding-pLa.ce, and the door has not been forced. No premature denouement has taken place. Exhausted and trembling, she flings herself on the bed, and cries latterly in the darkness, - with a new born sense of humiliation and shame. San is, so easy until the sinner is found out, -and it is in her nature to shrink from the contumely attached to rather; than from the guilt itself. When her. fit of weeping is over, she rises and bathes her eyes, trying to| collect her thoughts and clear her brain,; thus bringing back to her recollection the compromising letter she must destroy. -She '.knows the exact spot where -she laid it, and so stretches out her. hand in the darkness for it. It is not there; she passes her hand over the table, drops on her knees and feels the -carpet, t<o no purpose. Hot to the roots of her hair, she tries to recall! her every action, and distinctly remembers laying -down the letter in that particular- place. Memory is only too accurate on tllie point. -Some'one has entered the room during her absence, and taken away the fatal epistle. She lings sharply, her heart leaping with excitement and fear-; and presently a maad appears with a light, understanding that that is what is wanted. Lady Grumble flashes it over tlie room, into every corner. She flings -open tlie wardrobe, and searches - the dress she has taken off, then turns upon the .girl who stands in meek attendance. ‘Who has been in this room?” she demands, and the girl looks at her in surprise.

“No one, my. lady, since you came up yourself,” she replies,’ and Madeline, pressing 'her hand to her head, remembers her .part. ; She is supposed to have been lying down ill, all the evening, here.

“Something disturbed me,” she says; “and someone must have been in. A letter .1 laid .on this table is gone.” Naturally, the maid looks over, under, and about; the .table, to no purpose, her mistress anxiously watching. ‘Twiflil look in the morning whilst the room is being swept, my lady,” sa.ys Bessie. “I don’t see anything of it now. Are you sure you left it here ?” ’-Lady Grombie secretly wishes she was not. quite so sure, and renews her vain search with something like -desperation. Into whose hands can the letter have fallen? Without doubt someone has entered the room during her absence and taken possession of it, possibly to be used in. future for tire extraction of black-mail. In the midst of tlie little commotion Mrs Lawson comes quietly in, and Madeline looks at her suspiciously. Between the housekeeper and

the lady no love is lost. The former has a regard for her master, is jealous of anyone else having influence over him, and she has been treated with contempt from the first by Lady Grombie, who is seldom gracious to her inferiors, and •who resents Lawson’s airs of authority, born of life-service in one family. “What is it ? I did not ring for you,” she says, sharply. “I only came to ask if you were keepling better, my lady, and if I could do anything for you.” . ‘You could possibly tell me who has been in this room and taken away my letter,” returns Madeline, and Lawson asks, “When P” Being tot’d, she looks a little .resentful.

“When your ladyship has been here all the time,”-She says, coldly, “it would bo hard for anyone to walk in and out without you hearing or seeing. Besides, who in this house would steal your letter ? Who would come „ into your room without you ringing, unless Sir David himsellf ? The letter must be somewhere here.” “Then it must bo found,” retorts Lady Grombie, and Lawson indulges in a cursory search, which proves vain. “Ask Sir David if lie has been here,” directs Lady Grombie, peremptorily. “I shall not go down with this headache?’ What if he lias the letter? What if he is reading it now? She is pate and trembling and sick with a multitude of fears. But Sir David has net been upstairs since dinner. He lias been asleep, and is suffering from -cramp through having 1 fin so long in the same position, and he does not know why such a disturbance need be made about a letter. To whom was it addressed*? What is its importance. Questions Madeline’s headache helps her to evade. StiQ persuades herself that 'the letter

will be found in tlie morning, and oiv c|ens that it be brought to her at once, and to her only. The swift, ominous patter of rain is heard, and tlie first low growl of thunder. Sir David is extra irritable, and looks ten years older. “Where is Miss Grant?” he aebs. “It is time the doors were locked, mid she doesn’t seem to be in the house.” “Do you suppose she is out of it at this hour and in such rain?” demands Madeline. She does not know how Violet is to dispose of Wyniard, or get back unseen to the house, but her absenoe had best not. be discovered, lest she be sought for, and if found explanations may be forced, and with them disaster. “She must have gone to bed,” de-

clares Madeline, her teeth chattering a little. “She had a headache too. I suppose the weather accounts for it.” The nightly bolting and barring being dono without further inquiry, she feels that a peril has been averted. Still, misery is her portion, apart from that sword of Dumocles; the letter, the noise of thunder and of mailing rain, the brilliant flashes of lightening frighten her, and she lies in trembling sleeplessness, wondering where Violet is, if she has contrived to get indoors again, and picturing her exposed to the tempest, weak impotent tears ran down her cheeks until dawn is breaking. Then -a brief si’ umber brings refreshment and restoration. The vague terrors of night are over, the storm has subsided, and she begins to seek and find consolation Ono so clever and full of resource as Violet cannot have been out all night At worst, there is the old summer-housty for shelter. Amends abaljl be. made fos >her discomforts, Lady Oroanbie decades, mentally d signing a diamond bracelet. “I suppose it is for. the best,” flow her thoughts. “People would have said

dreadful things, and I anight have grown. ' tired of Wyniard after all. David should have treated me more kindly, but it was wicked of Arthur to ask me to leave home in such a manner, selfish to want me to forfeit position, friends, and everything. In future I must assert myself more, and take my own wiay, since it yvill not he given.” At a later hour the wonted peace and quiet-of the house are broken by the discovery that Violet’s bed has not been occupied, and that she is nowhere to be found. “Y ou told me last night that you knew she was in her room,” Sir David says angrily, to his pale wife* ’“I said I thought so,” Madeline corrects; “and even if she were out, she surely could come in again. She could make herself heard, I suppose.” It really is too had of Violet, Madeline feels. However late she had got rid of Wyniard, she could surely have come back, making some excuse, such .as a too-ilong walk, a pause for shelter. How stupid of her to stay out; how provoking! The storm has left its trace in beaten grass and broken branch and tossing tree, and Sir David looks out with a shudder. “If she Was out all night, she may be dead bv this time.” he says; “struck by lightning-, or something like that.” Madeline gives a wild shriek. “David do you want to drive me mad?” she exclaims, and begins laughing and crying at once, greatly to his consternation. Not knowing what to do, he rings for Lawson, who promtply responds and .Who treats Lady Orombde’s hysterics in a business-like, unsympathetic way. “I have sent to make inquiries up and down about Miss Grant, sir, and my lady doesn’t need to be alarmed,” she says, in her hard, ootid voice, and Made-line’s-sobs are subdued. “I told you that you woulld destroy your nerves with so much tea-drinking,” Sir David reminds her. “How people can wilfully and deliberately ruin their constitution puzzles me. You have not an atom of self-control.” He persuades her to lie on the sofa, qnd presents her with a sedative of his own compounding. Its effect is > counteracted, by the information that although Lady Orombie’s room has been scrupulously searched, the letter cannot be found. “Surely a letter *of very great importance,” Sir David says, suspiciously. “Not at all; but one does not like to - think that one’s correspondence is pryed into, even carried away for the entertainment of the servants’ hall. Lawseta must have curious ways of training her girls. Such a thing never happened in our establishment nor in Lite.” “You have mislaid the letter yourself,” Sir David says,' resentfully, and at this point Lawson re-appears, looking serious and uneasy. “May I 'speak a minute with you, aar?” she asks, and Madeline started upright. Is this dreadful woman about to put the letter into his hands? ‘You can have nothing to say to Sir ■David that I may not hear,” she says, haughtily, though her very lips are white, and her throat is parched. Lawson gives a respectful bend, and goes on impassively. s. “My brother-in-law has been out in* quiring about Miss Grant, Sir David,” she says, addressing herself to her master, “and seme man has told him that ihe saw a lady and gentleman on the shore last evening, and a boat was waiting for them, and took them out to the ‘Eliva.’ And the TElia’ is gone, sir.” .“What has that to do with Miss Grant?” Lawson turns red. , “Why, they are thinking she has run away with Lord Wyniard, sir, and it • looks like it, I must say.” “That’s' downright rubbish.,” says Sir David, testily. “Where is your brother ? Where is this man ? Let me try to get something intelligible from him.” And he goes g nimbi ing out of the room, leaving Madeline with a heart that seems unlikely ever to regain its normal beat. She presses her hand hard upon it, and pushes the hair from her brow, on which a cold dew has started. By-ond-by Sir David comes hack, looking “dour” and angry. “I can’t beUeve this of a sensible, kindly, well-behaved girl like Miss Grant,” he says. “It is simply impossible.”

“Why? I oftem thought Wyniard admired her. On one occasion, indeed, I saw him rather demonstratively show it." ■ :

“But why a vulgar elopement? What reason had they to run away ? Why not be engaged and married in a respectable becoming manner ?” s “One never knows what a girl so oddly brought up will do,” says Madeline, pail er than ever. ; Sir David frets and fumes all day. He even goes out to convince himeslf of the absence of the “Elia,” as if be thinks others have been the victims of an optical delusion, whilst Madeline cries herself into a state of exhaustion ' eu alarming that the doctor is called in. ; This good man advises change of air and Boene. He is afraid Lady Grombie has found Airdenfui a little dulil, and the System being down has lowered the f , spirits to. .She should go away, into cheerful society and milder temperature. • " “1 will go to Kiltartan,” she says to - fir David; “You'object to my seeing Jjdd, but you will not keep me here, un-

less you want me to die. Perhaps you do?” “My dearl” he exclaims, shocked. “I have never’ objected to your visiting your sister, but I did, and I do>, object to a crowd of visitors here. But we will go to Kiltartdn by alll means. 1 only hope wo may soon have tidings of Miss Grant.” .

Ardenilui has been searched in v 3lll for traces of her, hut Sir David declines to accept as final the theory that she has gone away with Lord Wyniard. He has liked her, and believed in hei “sweet reasonableness,” and he cannot see why sihe should do so foolish a thing without oause or motive. He clings to his own cheerful idea that some physical illl has befallen her. and wonders if ho should offer a reward foa* the recovery of her remains. Is it incumbent on him as her host to do this? Will not the police do it? Has she no friends to search for her and traoe her out ? He is turning these questions over m his mind when Madeline appears, her lips in a hard thin line, a dangerous light in her eyes. “I have been right,” she says, in a strangely harsh voice. “Violet has gone away with Lord Wyniard. I have had a letter from her, written on board the “Lilia,” and posted at Whitehaven.” “Good heavens! And how does she account for such extraordinary conduct?” “She does not account for it. She has written only to prevent a search and a sensation. I suppose when next we hear from her sihe will be Lady Wyniard.” *

Sir Dliuvrd stares before him, out across the field and garden into vacancy. “Where is the letter? Allow me to seo it,” he says, and Madeline gives a little shrug. “I have not kept it. I don’t suppose we shall see much of each other after this escapade, so I dhalll not preserve her epistles. This will be news for Lil!”

And she writes a hard little note to Lady Lorimer, wrath and resentment in her heart-. How eleven’ Violet has been, how cunning, what a successful schemer! She has had in view her own ambitious ends and aims, not the salvation of another. Weill mighty she so powerfully appeal against that intended flight, well might she be willing to wait and intercept Wyniard! Once on his yacht, lie would see that as a man of honour only one course was open to him. Oh, it was cleverly contrived, a wonderful trick!

A brief time elapses, and then a second letter from Violet comes, which Madeline reads with bewilderment, then with triumph and exultation. Arthur has done well. He has b affiled the adventuress, he has not dethroned hie first queen at her bidding. Her cunning plot has failed, and has brought only destruction to herself. With a smile that would startle some of her acquaintances, Madeline beans the note into minute fragments, and orders Miss Grant’s luggage to be sent on to London without delay. She has never liked Wyniard so well. ‘Your favourite is rather an eccentric person,” she says to Sir David, from heights of immaculate disdain. “After running away with Lord Wyniard, and cruising up and down in his yacht, she has gone hack to London, and writes to me about her luggage with the utmost coolness, as if nothing 'had happened.” Sir David collapses among the cushions of liia chair.

“I really can’t believe it,” he says feebly. “Why should sihe fabricate so discreditable a story?” Madeline asks.

“Oh, they wil'd be married yet,” he declares, after a pause. “It will be all right yet! Very likely they are to he married in London.”

“Although the yacht and its owner have gone to Naples?” says Madeline. “I think this is one of the subjects we had better not discuss.” By the time fixed for going to Kiltartan, Madeline has recovered herself to a great extent, and feels more able to go smoothly on with her part than if Wyniard had married Violet, who lias brought her troubles on herself, and will of necessity return to her former obscurity after so sharp a lesson. 151110 Harden will wash his fastidious hands of her, and others will withdraw their favour. As for the letter-, Lady Grombie comes to the conclusion that she must have destroyed it herself, unconsciously, which is not impossible, distracted as ehe was.

“I always said that some unpleasantness wouJld oome through that girl,” she reminds her sister, when the 'haven of ,Kiltartan is reached, and little Lady Lorimer deluges her with piteous ques>tions. “I never liked her, but I don’t defend him. Although she was his inferior. he should have married her. He is not so much better than his poor brother after all, Lilian;” with the air of one laying a wreath on the tomb of the late Lord Wyniard. “What does it all mean?” asks Lil, and Agnes Darrioch’s sharp eyes utter the same question. “The meaning is apparent,” say® Madeline. “She went away with him, stayed on the ‘Elia;’ and is still Violet Grant.” s

“And one of the best girls I have known,” supplements Miss Darriooh, at whom Lady Grombie directs a glance of compassionate surprise. “Hasn’t her going back to your rooms put vou in a rather unpleasant position,

dear Agnes? What will you do?” she asks, with an almost material interest,' but Miss Darrioch declines to be “stroked.” ,

“I shalll go kick, too, of course,” sho I repliesrfgkl liar downright style. “They | aro heWoouns as well as mane, and evi- j dently silio does not consider hersolt an unfit associate for mo. Merely on tho surface, it appears to mo that Lord Wyniard should be horsewhipped.” “I’ll! tekl Jack all about it, and get him to do something,” exclaims Lai, and although her sister says that these dreadful things should not bo talked about, sho plunges headlong into the subject when Sir David and tho master of the house appear. Sir John listens, his good-humoured expression gradual! ly fading. With a lowering brow ho asks a few sharp questions, and Madeline's low, soft replies provoke kian to* a breach of good manners. “Do you expect mo to believe that! Arthur Sorope is a damned scoundrel?” he demands, and Loll colours. Madeline draws herself up with a disgusted little “Really, Sir Johnl” and Agnes comes to the rescue by saying that she never- j thought Violet cared very much about Lord Wyniard. Madeline makes an arch of her eyebrows.

“Didn’t you, dear ? I don’t know Whether you are aware of it or not, Lil,” she says, addressing her sister; “but to me Violet admitted that she had known Wyniard before they met hare. And even here, why, I saw her myself taking flowers from him, and —allowing him to kiss her hand!”

Lil turns her pafle and downcast face aside, and Sir John gives a good deal of attention to the arrangement of his watch chain.

• “I really don’t think we should trouble ourselves about her,” adds Madeline. “She has proved quite unworthy of our kindness and confidence. It is really I most painfull to me.” j “Then we will not talk about it.” says Sir John, brusquely; “but, since the “Elia” is out of reach. I shall go up to London when Agnes does, and get the, truth from Miss Grant herself,” a de- I claraition which does not add to Lady Crombie’s mental comfort. . “Why should you concern yourself about her, Jack?- she asks, sweetly, i “I think the’ reason is obvious.,” he returns. “Wyniard is my friend, and Violet is Lil’s. I don’t use ike pafit | tense yet!” ~ , “Well, let us try to exercise the charity which thinks no ill,” mya Madeline, with a gentle sigh.

CHAPTER XV. “Have I not suffered things to be forgiven ? Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven, Hopes sapped, name blighted. Life’s life lied away?” —Byron. When Lord Wyniard comes to me again, it is to tell mo that Whitehaven is the town for which wo are making, and though I know nothing of it, I don’t care about that since to get ashore is my cliief desire. He shows mo a tune-table, and takes the trouble to explain what is host for me to do, pressing his assistance ou mo with ,all bho earnestness of remorse. Painful willl bo our parting, more painful still our future meeting, should such ever occur. I understand that he wiHl go to Naples, as at first intended, whither afterwards he has not decided, nor does it concern me. I decline his offered escort ashore, resolutely, but ho sends his man with me, ;vi attention with winch I could well dispense. We have gone but a short distance along the unfamiliar streets when l tell him that I prefer to go on alone, and am able to protect myself. He replies diffidently that Lord Wyniard wished me to be seen safely into the train, but on my further insistence accepts liis dismissal (like the weill-trained servant ho is. He gives me a letter, explaining that he was desired to do so by his lordship, and them to my relief goes. I look at the letter with little interest or curiosity as to what may be its contents. Perhaps, indeed, I had best destroy it unread, since it may be only another appeal. Wefl.l, lie is not wholly evil. He would have done all in his power to help me out of my ambiguous position, and I feed that I can rely on his promise to avoid Madeline, and on his silence. For some time I have had an uneasy consciousness of being watched and followed. I have heard certain footsteps, a vaguely familiar tread, ranging above other sounds, and now the person comes nearer and nearer,, almost keeping pace with me. 1. S° steadily on, though with only a glimmeiing idea of whither I am walking, until it is no longer possible to ignore my pursuei, since he has come to my side, and walks thereat as if he had a right. I turn quietly, with a question on my lips which dies away as I recognise the last person in the world I would have expected to see—my cousin, Stephen Gredg. I stop involuntarily, staring at him.. His face has grown harder and ddei*. his figure broader. It is our first

meeting since the night he put me out of hia house as a thiel. Sanoe them, ihow much has happened, how many new faces bavecome into my life, how manynew emotions into my heairt I My natural self-reliance, independence of thought and action, have increased, and I am no longer troubled by fear of him, <pr the necessity of accounting to him for what I do. He looks at me long and dloseily, with angry sternness in his eyes, and his voice is harsher than of old, his manner to me rougher, with none of the kindness he did at times exhibit, and which after so long a separation I anight have expected. ! “So this is what you have come to,” he says, with a kind of ferocious disdain, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and grimly staring me from head to foot. “It’s just what grandmother always said would be, but hang me if I believed her.” “What do you mean?” I ask him. “I was on the quay and saw where you came from,” he replies. “Do you think I haven’t seen that yacht in Luce Day and Loch Ryan, and the man who owns her about Momifield and Benotiair? So it was him you went away with after uifl Grandmother was sometimes hard on you, but you’d better have put up with her than end like this..” . “Have you always judged me rightly?” I ask. “I was wrong about that money, I know,” he admits; “but you know as Ivell that I never meant to turn you out, and if it hadn’t been for the whiskey I’d never have laid a finger on you. And you wouldn’t have run away just for that, Miss Violet, either, if somebody hadn’t been waiting far you, and if you hadn’t had it all cut and dry beforehand; I’m sure of that.” “You were sure, too, that I was a thief.” “You can’t always he the innocent,” ho retorts, “though yc-u pllay it well enough. What were you doing on board Lord Wyniard’s yacht then, with your way of it? Are you his wife?” “He is as little to me as he is to you,” I reply. “I would not be his wife if I could.” Stephen gives a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Why, a ohjld wouldn’t believe that, Violet. What’s the use of such a lie? I could make up a better tale myself. ■What .are you doing here then ?” I echo the question, and he curbly replies : “I can soon tell you; and I wish you could give as good account of yourself. I’m going to he married, and Maggie’s people live here, so I’m stopping with them two or three days, settling things. She was on a visit to Rowan’s last spring, and we made it up then. She has a hit of money, and more to come when her father dies; but for all that granny doesn’t like it. She tliinks I should stay single till she's dead; but I think it’s time she took a back seat." This is news indeed. I can understand grandmother’s disapproval!, and I am sorry for the girl who will have to. endiire its expression. I wish him sincerely much happiness and all blessings, and hid him remember how much depends oh himself in the new life. “To see you and hear you,” he exclaims, “folks would think you were an angel from heaven; but—look here, ! Violet, teCl me all about it, and I’ll heilp you, on my soul.” “But I do' not need help, Stephen. I ain going back to any home and my work; and do net seek anyone’s aid.” “I’d like to call! that fellow to a reckoning,” declares Stephen, with a backward jerk of 1 the head. “He has done me no wrong, anl you cannot interfere in matters which do not concern you, and winch you don’t understand.” “And is this all you will tell me?” he demands. “It is alll I can tell you,” I reply, and l\e draws a long breath. “If I could think you were good enough to be under the same roof with my Maggie,” he says, “we’d see if you couldn’t agr.ee to. live together, but first of all you must tell me what’s between you and Lord Wyniard, and jvhy you • are sent off here like a thing he’s tired of!” • ' We have been walking on through a ; crowded street, and now a little knot of people separates us, to my relief. Since I can tell him nothing, why should this interview be prolonged? I simply stand : still, and let the tide of strangers go by. It bears with it Stephen', and I do not see him again. I resume my journey having tasted the first bitterness and , learned something of what the world „ will say. I post my letter to Madeline at a pillar, and then remember Lord - tWyniard’s missive. I retire into a doorway, hastily opening it. and find therein an address to which he begs me to write should I thjnk of any service he can render. A note is enclosed, and he asks mo to use it, having guessed my want of means. H 9 has instructed the valet . to get any ticket, but lest I should send the man away before that can be done, takes this method of helping me out of no small diffiouCty.. Well, I am in a measure grateful for the forethought, and once in London can refund the note, which will be the first, probably the only communioat ion he will ever receive from ■. one.' Long and weary is the journey, long and weary the time, before the roar of London is in my ©airs again, before I find myself again in the home that may not long be mine. With what different

feelings, with what other anticipations, : had I left it! My unexpected, return, and possibly my appearance causes some , surprise to our staid, quiet maid, but j I volunteer no explanation. I thank-1 , fully take the refreshment she prepares, and before seeking rest I write to Madeline, telling her that I have reached London safely, and that she may rely on my silence. I entreat her to write and relieve my anxiety about her. This done and despatched, I wander about the rooans, too tired to sleep, too excited to rest. How still and quiet they are, how painfully orderly is our little studio with the empty easel, bare canvases and dosed folios that tell of completed tasks. Shall we ever work side by side again? M,y thoughts revert to my first day 'here, and with the memory comes the scent of violets. Somewhere I have a few of their faded leaves. _ What woman has not some such relic, though she may never visit the shrine? I know not how I drag through those first lonely days. I try to write, to recommence my work, in vain. It is impassible to produce anything worthy of writer or reader in my present state off mind; faot overpowers fancy, staring her into stone. I try to study, but thought defies ajil my efforts at concentnation, and I only read stupidly incomprehensible sentences. _ * After a period of suspense, I receive the following letter from Madeline, who is at Kiitartan: ; “Dear Violet, —Everyone is so angry 1 and surprised. They all think you eloped with Wyniard, and that he or you changed your mind about marrying. I wish you had not carried it quite so far, as I really don’t know how to defend you, not understanding why you went on board at all. I could not imagine what had become of you that night, but in the morning a man came to the house and told us that'.you and Wyniard had been seen going away together. I expected to hear next of youir marriage, and was glad you had succeeded in consoling him. It is very kind of you to promise silence, but after alll it does not matter. David and I have arrived at such an excellent understanding that he wK>uld not beiieve anything against me. I aim sure I should not have gone away after all. when it came to the point, but you evidently had more courage and confidence. Eiio Harden is travelling through Bavaria, and I hope that the gossip will have died before hie return, or your literary future may be affected. I wish I could help you, but I am really at a loss to see why you went on board the TDila’.” , I am stung through and through. No ward, no tone, no look of Stephen’s, caused my cheeks to glow, my heart to 1 (bum, my spirit to thrill with pain as 1 does this. She writes poignards, every word stabs. When a few days later I take the letter from my desk to destroy it, I find that she has written with invisable ink, and only a blank sheet of paper remains. Not so readily will the words fade from my saddened remembrance. No one intrudes upon any solitude, no other letters come. Nights of broken troubled sleep and days of dull exhaustion and lethargy succeed each other, and I wait their passing as best I may. Soon, surely, the angel will say “write.” At 'length comes a break in the heavy mduobomy,, not such as I would have do-

sired. It is about the time when Agnes should return, and I wait for her with anxiety, not knowing what she may think of me, What course she may have decided to pursue, since she has not written. One dark wet afternoon I have taken up some sewing, when I hear sounds that indicate an arrival, and steps just at the door. I rise, trembling a little, and it : s open to admit Sir John Lorimer. The colour flies up to my forehead at sight of him, and I half advance, half retreat. Hard is to be my ordeal! “Sir John!” Beyond the utterance of his name I cannot get. , “Yes,” he says, simply. “Lill sent me.” 1 Niot one pang is Lacking. Pale and cold I look into his grave and sorrowful face. “What does it all mean?” he begins. “Is it tx - ue that you left Ardenlui with Lord Wyniard? Are we to believe that?” “Yes, it is true,” I reply, mechanically. “Of course, you had a very good rea/- j son,” he says cheerfully. j “Not 10110 that I oam give you,” I answer, and he looks at me more searchingly. As far as I am concerned, his long journey has been in vain. 1 “Where is Wyniard ?” he asks/, I abruptly, and as by this time the yacht willl have 'left Naples I can truthfully answer that I do not know. “Had he no intention of marrying you?” Sir John demands. “I understand that he admired you. How is it that when you took so strange and wild a step he did not hasten to protect you from t'he consequences ? Has he proved himself a mean, vile coward?” “Not to me. He would have married me; I declined the honour.” Sir John stares at ane as if he thinks I have gone mad. ! “Wlhy P” he cries. “Do you ’mean that he asked you to be his wife, and that in your senses you refused? Did he take you on board by force?” “I went of my own. free will, Sir John. Do mot -ask me anything, beoause I cannot explain or justify my conduct.” j “I came here sure that you would tell me, perhaps ask the help I would gladly give. Every day I have been hoping, and Lil has been hoping, for a letter from you that would clear it all. She would have come herself if her late anxiety had not left her too weak for such a journey. Have you any confidence in bar? Could you speak to her as you cannot to me ? If so, write to her. Your confidence will be as sacred as i!f you whispered it into the ear of am angel. Has she not some claim on you— j some right to expect your trust?” 1 “I cannot tell her anything,” I reply, j. lifelessly, “though no one has a stronger claim on my gratitude and trust.” “I can’t understand it!” Sir John exclaims. “If you had disagreed With your host or hostess, you could have left their house in a less questionable manner. You were not a schoolgirl who did not know what she was doing, and couldn’t foresee the consequences of a silly escapade. Wlhat was he thinking of to allow it?” For a moment or twio I am silent. How can I reply? “I cannot reproach Lord Wyniard, Sir John.” “Can't you? I suppose he could not

■da much more than ask you to marry him. Did ytou know how much harm your refusal might do?” “Yes,” 1 reply, briefly. Would that this cross-examination were ended! I might peremptorily refuse to admit his aight to question me at all, but the memory of past kindness and care and goodness is too strong. I feell that lam blackening myself hopelessly in hia eyes, but thus driven to bay I know not whither I should turn. “Why did Wyniard go away and leave you to face this out alone?” Sir John asks, after a brief pause. “He went ait my earnest request.” Sir John stares at me again, then walks up and down, his .hands behind him, biting one corner of his lip, perplexed, distressed, doubtful!. “My dear girl,” he says, suddenly, and rather impatiently, “you really canhot understand What harm you are doing to yourself. Your saying that yon declined to marry Wyniard and sent him away ties my hands. You are putting it quite out of my power to help you. He can answer alii that I may say with your refusal. Have you no explanation to give me?” “.None,” I answer, and he beats hilfc foot, upon the ground. “What am Ito say to Lil ? Isn’t this rather a poor return to her ?” ■ Ah, if he knew! My consolation and support are that he does not know. My ©yea fill, but I wipe away the unbidden tears. I must not break down; better lose faith in a friend than in a sister. “Come, come,” Sir John says, with all his olid genial kindness, “you are alone in the world practically, and if yon might have a better friend than I am, so also might you 'have a woise. Trust me for my wife’s sake. Why did you do anything so silly?” I can only repeat my former reply, and Sir John’s impatience is beginning to get the better of him. * “Perhaps I shall get the truth from Wyniard,” he says, and this to me is like a threat. How the truth, if forced from the lips of his friend, would overwhelm him! “I beg you will not try, Sir John,” I entreat. “It is the only favour I ask. I am ready to bear the consequences alone, and I implore you not to call Lord Wyniard to account for me. Your doing so would aggravate, not lessen, the ill.” “It is all beyond my comprehension,” he returns, with heat. “Miss Darrioch is here, and I shall have to tell her that you decline to explain yourself. Upon my word, you have darkened darkness!” He adds appeal to entreaty, reason to reproach, in vain. I know that I try hia forbearance to the utmost, but I cannot heilp it, and at length he yields to me the victory sorrowfully enough. “I can say no more, Miss Grant,” he says. “I would willingly have set this wrong right, and saved your name, bad you trusted me. As it is—'Good-bye.” He is at the door before I find my voice, hoarse and faltering enough. ‘Think me anything but ungrateful to you and yours. Sir John. I shall love and bless you and Lil all my life.” Then it is over. Never again shall I enter that happy, joyful, sbaMess home of his. lam reaping to the full the harvest of another’s sin. ‘Well may shadows gather round me,” as I sink back to my ©hair, and store before me* in a dead, stony calm*

Qjnti of my stupor the barking of a <2irg: calls.' me; A little tenner wriggles am, and L shudder and start, my lips, stiff aaid dry, part in. a breathless gasp. Too weak to rise. I look at the vacancy of tihe open door, shrinking humanly from the next blow. Then the figure of Agnes fills that blank; her searching eyes look into mine, her compressed lips do not relax, but she puts her arm -round my shoulders and lays her cheek upon my hair. By this action I know tllxat one strong, brave woman’s heart will never fail me, that here 1 have a

comrade, a changeless friend. Few words - pass between us, for she is one of those who understand the sympathy of silence, not cold and emotionless, but gentle and subdued. It is only Git night that she alludes to what has taken place, and she holds my hand in hers as she speaks.

“If there is no explanation you can give, Violet, one subject had best be avoided between us. It seems to me that you have done a foolish thing, hut as I don’t know your motives I cannot rightly judge. Hard things will be said of you, but you can live them down. We aam work away together as if .nothing had happened. I have always liked you, and I always shall.” 35 her resolve costs her any effort, I do not see it, nor is there the slightest alteration in her manner to me. She is not demonstrative, and she goes calmly on as if nothing has occurred to disturb the even tenor of our way. I know of Sir J ohn’s return to Perthshire by receiving a wild incoherent letter of appeal- from Lil, which I cbare not trust myself to answer. I am not altogether oast out of that warm and loving heart, but between us a division must remain. How can she think me worthy of her trust any more? I einter now upon tihe darkest and dreariest time of my life. Agnes re- . sumes her work with facility and delight; but I? With my good name, with the esteem of others, I have lost a® Imaginaion has left me, the founts of fancy have run. dry. It has become an impossibility for me to produce any'thing. I stare at blank sheets, or crude disjointed sentences day after day. My hand has lost its cunning, my brain its power, and over the grave of a dead faculty I Shed blinding, hopeless tears. I read, in the hop 6 that the words of others my inspire me, but the seed falls on barren ground; my mind is fruitless. Shocks of time have killed my only . talent, and without it I remain an incapable, a sunless dial, a sword!ess Bhearth. Weeks have drifted away m this mental catalepsy before I speak of it. Agnes shows me one day a .series of sketches completed for the “Art Magazine,” and asks what progress I am making. Thou, despairingly, I tell her my trouble. She tries to reassure me; she declares* this a passing trial peculiar to artist and author, and recalls how die-has suffered from it herself, though not for so long a period. “As soon as I have finished anything, lam perfectly 'certain that lam ‘used up,’ and shall never again produce even ‘twadoon scarts and three cross ones/ as Meg Bods says,” she tells me, cheerfully; “but still you see I am going on.” And she advises me to lay my work altogether aside, to read, to go out, to find new interests, until fickle fancy, tired, of being slighted returns. I gather the blotted, tear-blistered pages togother, and lock them out of my sight, ashamed of the shuddering distaste I feel for my former beloved occupation, my sword, my shield, my spear. I, follow the advice given, studying hard, not only books, but London’s marvels-, pictures, museums, the solemn old abbey, the sombre tower, to no purpose. I realise that, literature having failed me, some other means of livelihood will, ere long have to be sought. Outside literature what are my capabi- " • iities ? What can I do ? Before; in every grief, I had this resource, and now it is denied me. All my did pursuits, all my old friends, save one, are dead' to me.; hut she lives, with smiles that never fail; kind words that never falter, cheerfulness that stays undimmed, otherwise the weary winter months would be hopeless indeed. ..Once in a newspaper I see that Mr Harden is still travelling in the country where the scene of his next story is to he laid. Our novel ;is produced, and succeeds beyond anticipation. The first edition is almost immediately exhausted, and a second caliedfor in an unprecedented short time. Letters are showered upon me, asking for the-'promise of contributions.. Publishers and editors pay postal 'court to me; and I can only look miserably vat the letters, unable to respond, unable to produce; apathetic where applause is concerned. Miss yerrard is roused by my success. and' writes me to the effect that my play will be put in rehearsal immediately , after the holidays, and produced as early in the season as r' possible; hut it seems to me that Violet Grant; with her - ardent hopes, and endeavours, is- dead, and only her colourless shadow: remains. I shall never - .write, again;