HIS OWN ENEMY.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1681, 18 May 1904, Page 5

HIS OWN ENEMY.

BY MARY CROSS. Author of “Under Sentence,” “A Woman's Victory,” "False Witness,” “A Dark Deceiver,” etc. CHAPTER XVI. 'Sir John Lorimer, having expected other commissions of more or less importance, returns to Kill tartan, disheartened and more in the dark than ever where Violet Grant is concerned. Lil is more deeply distressed and perplexed. Madeline says the subject does not admit of discussion, and the Darrioohs, who have heard the story from her, indulge in ‘lamentations for Agnes’s obstinacy iin continuing to associate with that girl. Beyond question is proved the evil of feminine independence. “Poor Agnes!” sighs the eldest Miss Darrioch. “I certainly never shared her liking for Violet Grant, but I would not have believed this of the girl on "slighter evidence, and I really thought Lord Wyniard admired her.” “That makes her refusal all the mere inprobable,” scornfully deolares Madeline. “As if a girl, not so youthful, not so beautiful, would refuse such a chance!” ' “I don’t know about that,” says Miss Darrioch, a little tartly. “I remember refusing a man myself because he was too fond of me. He positively used to tremble when he saw me or came near me.” “I don’t wonder,” replies Madeline, with peculiar sweetness, adding, as the other looks rather suspiciously at her; “but Miss Grant’s position and yours are totally different. I am quite distressed about Agnes; but I think slhe will change her mind later on/ The Oombies return to Ardenlui at the end of some weeks, but Madeline has no intention of resuming for any lengthened period her former existence there. Why should one who has only to appear to command admiration be thus hidden from all men’s sight? She feels that She owes herself some tiom for not having gone away with Wyniard, and the episode has also destroyed her fear of her husband, inasmuch as she feel® that escape from him is by no means difficult. She is inspired with contempt for one so blind, so easily cajoled. Mrs Quenton writes to saw that they

should coane to London foil* the season, which promises to be brilliant, with Royal marriage, foreign ‘Visitors of dist tinction,” and many great functions on the programme. She thinks that Madeline should be presented on her marriage at the first “drawing-room,” at Which suggestion Sir David’s liair rises. Wlho in possession of sense and. reason would squander money on such follly and vanity? Is he to he ruined outrightP lie demands, and hostilities begin. After they nave been unduly prolonged, Lady Oombie wins, having the best “staying power,” and having resolved to have her own way at any cost. A® constant dropping wears out a stone, feminine persistence tires oiut the opposition of a i feeble mind and body, and Sir David | wearily yields. He supposes he will fill ! a pauper’s grave, thanking heaven for | the poorhouse, otherwise he might die under a hedge. Madeline instructs her mother about the town house and furniture, without going through the form of consulting : her husband. Perhaps it is as well not to trouble him, since his much-tried constitution seems to be breaking up at last, and January’s cold and wind have so bad an effect on him that his doctor orders him back to Bins as soon as h« has regained strength sufficient for the journey. , . “One would really think you had con- | ti'ived this illness,” Madeline tells Mm, j pettishly; “but I can’t change my plans now. Mamma will take charge of me, ■ and you and 1 ean rejoin each other later.” Sir David is too sick for aught save acquiescence. ' He is confined to his room, and strict orders are given that he is to be kept quiet and undisturbed, so Lady Oombie continues her arrange* i ments on her own responsibility, j One morning Lawson, who has been j receiving her customary orders, lingers a little, and Madeline look® at her inquiringly for a moment. “Jjy-tiie-by, there is something effse I want to say to you, Lawson, but I can’t remember what it is. Are you waiting : for anything?” she asks, j “I don’t rush to trouble Sir David, my so 7-erhaps you will toll me if he wants mt to go with him, or to remain in charge here,” Lawson replies, and Lady Crombie lets fly her shaft. “Ah, I remember now. How odd that I should torget. You ore to do neither i on 6 <j»r the c iher, Lawson., Your sear- ' vices will not be required after the 25th. I shall he very pleased to add my recommendation to Sir David’s, if you want it.” . . .. . *

There is a sudden flame in the cold eye, a sudden streak of colour in the ■withered cheeks, and Lawson’s hands press themselves tightly together. ... “I prefer to take my dismissal from Sir David,” she says, stonily, whereat Lady Orombie’s face flushes a little, and heir beautiful lip curls itself with disdain. '... ■ ’ “I forbid you to see Sir David,” she returns. "You cannot .be allowed to disturb him on any pretext. I think you forget that I am mistress here. You (have 'been too long in this establishment, and a change is necessary for my comfort.” “I have been' here all my days,” Lawson says, with her wonted stolidity, and a new grimness in her aspect.. Lady Orombie points impatiently to flhe door. "Do not let me have either insolence or disobedience,” she says, "or I shall insist upon your leaving my house at once.” Lawson looks as if she is about to make a sharp retort, swallows it, looks her lips, and silently leaves the room. Lady Orombie feels that she is winning al'l aJlong the line. Mrs Quenton will find someone suitable to take Lawson’s place. The reign of. domestic tyranny is over. She has anticipated the housekeeper forcing herself into her master’s presence, but no such thing occurs. Lawson seems more and more resigned Cts the 25t!h approaches, enters no pantest, makes no appeal and Madeline is angry with herself for having so long yielded to a woman thus easily conquered.

A marked improvement takes place an Sir David’s condition. When it is reported. Madeline feels as if the knell of her own life has been sounded, not that ehe desires the did man’s death, but Providence would have done so kindly and so wisely in'releasing him from his aches and pains, and the burden of his years. She has gone out for a drive, escaping certainly from the odours of drugs, and the ghostly rustlings of servants who have been told not to make a noise, but leaving her citadel undefended, losea all. Lawson has thrown herr off her guard, and seizes the opportunity thus afforded! without a momenta delay. : Sir David is sitting up with a support of pillows and cushions, a tall screen behind his chair,, a small table with an array of phials and medicine glasses opposite, when the house-keeper comes quietly in. “I thought you were afraid of infection when you never came near,” he says, peevishly, as she-.rem.oves the unappetising table from his sight, rearranges his pillows, and extends the screen with deft accustomed hands whose ministrations he has missed. > “I was bid not to come, sir,” she replies ; "but when I knew you were bettea*, I could not be kept away. I wanted to ask you myself what I have done to get the like of this after serving you ell my. life. I don’t deserve to be dismissed like a scullery-maid after nearly fifty years’ faithful service, and a lady wouldn’t have done it.” “What are you talking about?” Sir David demands, with much asperity. “Lady Orombie tells me I must leave on the 25th, sir. She never liked me, and She has taken the advantage of your illness to get rid of me.” Sir David leans tack in his chair, the rugged resolute lines of his face deepening. ... "That is soon settled,” he says. "You remain in my service. I shall never find as careful and prudent a wonlan ais you. I will speak to Lady Orombie. You stay until I tell yoiu to leave me.” "I am willing to go for your peace and comfort, sir,” says Lawson, resignedly; "but first there’s something it is my duty to telil you.. I couldn’t go away with such a burden on my conBcdence.”

Sir David’s mind pictures waste in the kitchen, a fraudulent account, or ■bygone purloining, and he. composes himself to listen with the air of a man -who takes a vital interest in the pettiest details of housekeeping. ' ' ‘TH try and make it short, sir, so that you won’t be wearied,” says Lawson ; “but I hope you’ll keep yourself prepared for an awful shook. You know my husband’s brother has been here?” Sir David exercises himself on the moral trapeze again, jumping to another conclusion. “He doesn’t want employment does ho?” asks he crossly. “I can’t help him. With all Lady Orombie’s new expenses and the doctor’s bill®, we shall have to save and retrench for years. I don’t see how I am to afford this journey to Ems, I am sure.” woman should use her own * money, and not touch yours,” says Lawson, gruffly. “The woman! Choose a more respectful way of describing your mistress and my wife:” . / _* * ‘&“I ask your pardon, Sir David. I • hope I shan’t have to say worse before I’m done. iMiay Igo on? Thank you, V str Well, I was going to tejU yoai that James Lawson is a detective, and he . came here for some reason I don’t know, but I think it had to do with Miss

Grant. Anyhow, he watched her a good deal, and asked a lot of questions about het. I could never tell anything but what was good and sweet and kind of . bar. Well, sir ; yen’ll not have forgot- .?'•* ben the night of the storm when she Went, away? My lady went to bed with ' a headache, but I was coming downstairs

from my own room, where I’d been with some liniment you gave me for my rheumatism, meaning to use it that night, and I saw her locking her door and hiding the key of it.” "You saw whom?” asks Sir David. "Do be plain about what you tell!” "I saw my lady, sir,” answers Lawson, who cannot be callled diffuse, at any time. "She had on a big cloak and a cap and a little bag in her hand, and she went creeping down the stair as if she was afraid of being heard. I was sure something was wrong, and not being without my suspicions I unlocked her door and looked about me. to see what she had taken, and so came across a letter'addressed to you, which I took. You remember the fuss my lady made about her .lost letter?” "Why did you not give it to me at the time?” Sir David angrily asks. ‘You were asleep, sir, and I knew it would keep. • I ran and told James Lawson what I had seen, and he set off and followed her, to see what the end of it was to be. Have you no idea, Sir David, what your wife meant to do?” Sir David shakes his head silently; he stares at her with lustreless eyes, knowing that some blow is about to fall, and cannot he averted. "She meant to run away with Lord Wyniard, sir. Hush, don’t make a sound;-don’t let the servants hear. It’s the truth, if I was never to speak again!” He is white and gasping, half rises, then falls back again. A straying gleam of hope illumines his death-like face "But after all, she did not go!”

"No, sir; because Miss Grant went. Miss Grant found out what she was doing, and begged her on her knees not to. James says if she’d been praying to the Lord for herself she couldn’t have been more in earnest, and she made my lady go back, and she put on her cloak and went with Lord Wyniard that lie shouldn’t persuade your wife again. James heard every word of it. He came and told me, and for a while we couldn’t make up our minds what to. do. First I thought I’d give you the letter, and we thought of all Miss Grant said about you, and my lady’s sister, and the shame and’ disgrace and dishonour it would be to you -all, and my lady having come back we agreed to keep it all to ourselves. And James said Lord Wyniard liked Miiss Grant and would marry her, so good might come out of it after all. We held our tongues for your sake, sir; you know all that’s been said and done since. But I’ve often thought it hard that Miss Grant should have all the and blame of iit. I often wondered how my lady could hear to hear it, and perhaps it ia her fault that Lord Wyniard didn’t marry Miss Grant, However sir, I would not have told you if I hadn’t been leaving and felt, obliged to give up this letter.” A little foam had gathered about Sir David’s lips, and lie wipes iit away with a tremulous hand. “Give, me the letter,” he says', and being obeyed, he opens it, recognising Madeline’s handwriting, remembering the incidents of that night and morning, her anxiety, her strange manner. Carefully he refolds it, returning it to Lawson. "Take charge of that for me. You axe the only person I can trust.” He leans forward, spreading his bony, bloodless hands over the fire, letting all that he has heard surge through hia mind—a melancholy, maddening tide. "Violet was a good girl,” he says, as if speaking to himself. "So she saved an old man from dishonour. She has suf fered for it, too.”

“She is suffering still, sir. Perhaps no one will take her books when they hear such things about her, and her writing is all She has to live by.” “I know, I know. So She _ wanted to keep disgrace from me! Violet Grant She didn’t mock me with her pe either.” He turns abruptly -to th watchful woman beside him. “You stay, Lawson; I Shall want you.” “What will you do, sir ?” she asks, half frightened, half curious. “I’ll bide my time,’ he says, with a sudden and animal-like ferocity, his hair seeming to bristle, his lips dragged hack from his teeth. “I’ll be as cunning and secret as she, and have my revenge when she least looks for it. Once she leaves this, my house, she shall never enter it again, not if she crawls to its door starving I” The housekeeper lifts a warning finger, her keener ears have caught the sound of a languidly approaching step. Lady Crombie enters, blooming after her exercise. She surveys Lawson with halfshut eyes, and draws off her glove leisurely and carefully. “When I forbade you to come into this room,” she says', in a low drawl, “I told you what would he the consequences of your disobedience.” Lawson looks meekly down, and Sir David struggles before'he can speak. “Mrs Lawson will stay,” he says, finding speech with the utmost difficulty; and Madeline attributes 'his manner to fear of her displeasure. She gives a slight shrug and turns away.

“You can Choose between your wife and your servant,” she says, indifferently. “I shall not return to your house whilst this person is in it.” As she leaves the room Sir David lodes at his servant with a sardonic grin. He speaks, but his sentences trail off into unintelligible words; and he falls face downwards in a swoon*

CHAPTER XVII. “But I 'have lived, and have not lived in vain! My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire. My frame perish even in conquering pain, But there is that within me which shall the Torture and Time.” —Byron. One of the first great gatherings of the season is being held to-night in a certain Belgravian mansion. The hostess, in sheen of satin and glimmer of pearl, stands at the head of the staircase receiving guests who ascend between stately palms and under festoons of fragrant flowers to radiant rooms, through which float sweet strains of a violin played by a master-hand. Later on a prirna donna will sing and a popular actor recite, and brilliant is the audience. In a very bower of exotics a young beauty has arranged hecnself, the dark-green, glossy leaves emphasising the lustrous whiteness of her robe, the loveliness of her face and figure. A suggestion of languor and remoteness heightens rather than lessens her charms, giving her a touch of the spiritual, as if she rather looks on at than belongs to the hollow gaities of society. One expects to hear the rustle of her wings. This is the* thought oocuring to a dark, distxn guishing-looking man, whose clear-cut features are familiar to all, thanks to photographer and engraver, and who faintly smiles as he dexterously slips through the throng to make his bow before her. “You, Erie?” she says, in her most silvery tones. “So you. have 00-me back again at last. Did you by any chance encounter Sir David P” , §r “Yes, our paths crossed once, ana

though we spoke not, we looked at each other, harked and growled, hub didn’t bite. He appeared to he as strong and well as you would desire.” “I am glad he is so much better,” says Madeline, suavely. “I really was not equal to the journey, so ho decided to go alone. There is something lam so anxious to ask you. Do you think Lill is looking as strong and well as you wouild desire, or as she Should be?” “I have not seen her since my return, two days ago,” replies Mr Harden ; “but I suppose she has had too much anxiety, about her little ones to be quite herself yet.” “Without mentioning all the vexation and grief she has bad through that girl you used to admire so much.” “Which one?” asks he, imperturbably. “Don’t affect simplicity, Erie. You have heard all about it, of course,” she 1 says, with a swift furtive glance through her long lashes. “It has been an actual sorrow to Lil, for she was quite attached to Violet Grant; I don’t know why. I never could see much in her.” “You must 'have been fond of her too, then, since Love is blind. What has Miss Grant done—written a shilling Shocker ?”

“Absurd 1 But if you really have not heard, I would much rather not tell you, and anyone else can. as it is no secret.” “But net as you can. -Refresh me. I have just left some clever people from whom I learned that there is depth m Oaa-lyJe that Burns wias Nature’s poet, and Dickens a born humorist, with other facts hitherto unknown to me.” .. “Sarcastic as ever, (Mr Harden!” “No; only rather tired of hearing that A is the first letter of the alphabet. Won’t you restore my intellect to its normal state by telling me this charm-

ing story ? Anything about Miss Grant, toCd by you, must be charming.” “I only wish it were ! Poor Lil has been terribly disappointed. Really, only insanity could excuse the girl's conduct. Did you ever remark any peculiarity or eccentricity in h&r ?” Lady Orombie confidentiail/ly asks.

“She appreciated my genius. Must I describe that as a premonit-o-ry symptom of insanity ?” “Absurd! It is not'a matter to be joked about at all,” says Madeline, impatiently. “If 'Miss Grant lias gone mad, it certainly is not. Is that what you mean ?” Madeline’s voice -sinks to the lowest whisper, and others notice how attentive as heir auditor., bending forward., to hear the soft sweet murmur. The Story told, she glances -ait him, experience not even yet having taught her the uselessness of expecting Eric’s face to reveal what he feels.

“Wheat do you think of it?” she asks. ’ “That it will strengthen her writing immensely. Experience is the' best tonio for an author.” “But such an experience for a woman,” say® Madeline, reproachfully. “According, I think, to Thackeray, there is no sex in literature.”

“And not-touch principle either, it would seem,” she says-, coldly. “Thank you,” he returns,.with a slight bow. “No doubt you are right. The child is father to the man, and even at the age when my intellect found sufficient nourishment in a Sunday-school book, I was interested in the hero only whilst he was wicked, and did not care 'what he did after his conversion.” “I did not accuse you of want of principle,” she assures him. “Of course, I should not have mentioned the affair had I not been sure that someone would teld you less mercifully than poor Violet deserves.’’

“You are always generous. I will try to be the same, and not monopolise you any longer,” he says, rising, but she detains him with a question. “Can one-know Violet after that? Can one associate with her? Can one introduce her to one’s friends?” sihe asks, with anxious earnestness. “If you had a sister, what would you advise her to do?”

“Being ignorant of all delicate, refined, and womanly feelings. I should probably advise 'her not to form a link in the chain of scandal.”

“I"don't quite understand you,” she says, colouring faintly., but he merely smiles, whereupon she adds, anxious to retain him and lure him into an expression of opinion on Violet Grant, that she has never liked Ardenlui, and feels that slim will hate it after such an octeurrenc©; it will never lose the association.

£r Yo.u should try Glenallan,” he .suggests, politely. “I thought Sir David would certainly reside there' after his marriage. "It is a immature Eden.”

“And T never even heard of it before !” she exclaims. “Bo tell me alii about, it. Does it belong to Sir David ? You don’t mean the shooting-box the lets, do you?” “Shooting-box scarcely describes it,” says Brio, not accepting bar si! ent invitation to resume his seat, “though he does let it, with the adjacent moor and dear forest. Some of my mother’s childish hours were spent there, and to me it seems a perfect dwelling. ” ‘“And might eventually ; have been your, but for that unfortunate disagreement,” she murmurs regretfully. “I think, however. I might -effect a reconciliation. between you. Hearts are caught in.the rebound, and Sir David was so disappointed in Violet Grant, who tod quite got into bis favour, no doubt for her own ends. Do you want to enilist my services in your cause ?” “Not for the second time,” he says smiling again. “Sir David has already arranged my fate, and it -suits me well enough. “I could not cringe for a prize greater than Grlemail an. 1 am too proud of owing all I have and am to mysefi, too proud of being a 'self-made’ man; and if I do worship my maker, Why, I might bend the knee at a more ignoble shrine. It is one of my pleasures to hear my. friends describe me as a living monument to myself.” “You are incorrigible,” she says, with the smart of defeat, irritated by her own inability to compel him back to the one subjeot, angiy with her own precipitation in mentioning it, feeling that ebe has been ill-bred in doing so. How is it . that Eric Harden afways contrives to lower her self-esteem ?

“My vacant, days go on, go on.” Still barren are the once productive fields of my mind. My MS. notes .still lie in their dead and dreary chaos. I plod along the way of-translation, preferring it to one of idleness, my by-gone studies coming to my aid, and Agnes, ever cheerful, encouraging me and reminding me that in many senses the {literary life is one of waiting.- She spends Christmas with me, and my distress is not lessened by divining that bar continued association with me has been the oause of coldness between herself- and her relatives. There is an outbreak of orange peel on fibe pavements, of cards in .stationers’ windows ; much social enjoyment gaiety, and good feeling, amid which I feel as an exile. I > hear through Agnes that Sir David has been seriously ill; next that he .is better, and is gone to Eras to recuperate, Madeline remaining in town fjruT Alio isaason*

And one day I see her. I am in the Park with Agnes and one of her matronly friends, watching the brilliant stream of social (and other) celebrities, and the two beautiful sisters slowly pass. Whether one ready sees me or not, I cannot tell. „ Sho gazes beyond me, but into the brown eyes of the other there leaps her whole heart.

Dear Lil, dear loving tender Lit I I am prepared for the visit immediately following this recognition. How am I to resist her? How shall I withstand her appeals? Will my fortitude last forever? I hide m.vseif, trembling like a guilty coward. I hear with relief the maid’s: “Miss Grant must be out after all, my lady; but I’m sure I thought she wa® at home,” and the peril is passed. I am not “at home” to Lil any more. Ungrateful, sullen at' the best-, must I seem in her eyes.

Evening’s golden light is flooding the square; somewhere a band is playing ono of Caroline Lowihian’s valises, and distance mellows the sound; carriages are rolling away tot dinner, dance, or opera, I have been in the quiet -deserted gardens reading. as‘ I often do now, to keep away thought. “Bless heaven for hooks!” What being with a mind ever so little above animal requirements has not at some time uttered this thanksgiving and benediction ? Closing the heavy gate I ilook up at our windows, wondeitng if Agnes has returned from her visit to an East-end mission with the usual amount of sketches, anecdotes, and friction.

‘‘One does meet with surprising selfdenial,” she has declared, her shrewd eyes twinkling. “For instance, I was rebuked by one of the pious matrons of the district for giving sixpence to a .starving boy, on the grounds that the ohilld’s father being a drunkard the money was certain to go in drink, and therefore I was indirectly fostering crime, idleness, unthrift, laziness, begging, -etc. As her husband owns a thriving drink-shop in the neighbourhood, her consistency in objecting to this disposal of my ajkns filled me with awe and silence. That kind of person always mistakes forbearance for cowardice or stupidity, and naturally she thought me crushed by her logic. The same boy is being taught the Lord’s Prayer, and understands at least tihe petition about daily bread, hut wants to know if he mayn’t say, “Our mother, cos father only lacks us when we ask for anythin’.” And she shows me a thumb-nail sketch of this -lady, and the little trophy of the ginpalace upturning the olid face one sees in the children of the degraded-poor. Slowly I move homewards, thinking of this, until someone stops' my progress.. I look up. and then it is as if the pavement and the sky meet. I seem to rise and fall, and when the faintness passes I look again into the face of Eric Harden, whence the shocked and startled expression has not faded. “Have you been iill P” he asks, sharply, his eyes intent on me.

‘‘Have you heard not lung about me?” I return. Would he speak if he had?

“Oh, I have heard,” he says, a little impatiently.

His hand is still extended, and I put mine into it, not to meet the expected conventional touch, but a close, warm, strong clasp, such as a long-absent friend might give, and I turn my head aside to oomseal the tears I cannot restrain.

“Let m© take you home,” he says, hastily and eagerly. “I have much t-o say to you. and I cannot afford to lose this chance.”

I do not decline, though thrilled with a vague, fear of what he may say. How, as wo cross the square / together, returns to me the memery of times when we wajlked “slow by starlight through the corn," or amid the rich green woods of lovely Perthshire in the sweetest summer of mv life! Scent of roses is in our sitting-room, for I have filled its vases _ afresh this morning, and the evening air blows in, over the window-boxes of mignonette. I sit down where I can feed it, less tliat weakness should come back, but Mr Harden stands erect before me, his eyes piercing me through and through. I know linw altered I am, how pale and thin and careworn, and I feel that he is noting every change. Why is he here? To reproach, to rebuke, to expostulate? Has he been sent or has he sought me of his own accord? Have I done wisely in not sending him away at first? The shock of meeting him has surely dulled my wits. • “Can you think of .any reason why I hare come to you ?” he begins, just as if he reads my thoughts. “Can you remember anything I wanted from you, and still desire ?” “I cannot, now.” I answer, faintly Bait firmly. “Bait now more than ever,” he returns, “and for reasons even stronger than those which swayed me when first I asked you to be my wife. Will you still refuse me the right to take care of you, to protect you, still, when you can’t even take care of your own health?” “You .cannot have heard of me —what <1 thought,” I answer. There is a force and fire and fervour in his manner which allarms me, knowing as I do my own weakness. - “I have heard how you left Ardenlui from false and cruel lips and from true and kind ones,” he says. “The meaning of it, the secret of it, is your own, and you are evidently determined to

keep it. I have not tried to explain it to myself, or to understand. My knowledge of your character and disposition has sufficed. If I doubt the integrity of one person in that transaction and its consequences, be assured that the object of my doubt is no more you than it is ono of the angels. Yes, I have heard; and the hearing heightens my desire to interpose all I have, and am, between you and the human viper.” He is good to me; he is kind. Once again out of his compassion he offers me a homo, and onco again I have strength to refuse. “When first you knew me.” I remind him, e you bade me be prepared for the malice of mean tongues. I am, and I can bear it.” “You can bear it, I know,” he exclaims. “and would go on bearing it untill the last, breath of life was driven out of you; but—Violet, is there no feeling in me? Is it easy, is it possible for me to look on at this endurance, knowing you as I do, loving you as I do? Cold, hard, passionless, am I? God! I have a heart like the rest of men. I have hopes as warm and sweet and human as my fellows, if I ca/.not make them the theme of every discourse! I appeal to you. Do you believe my love; or do you believe me incapable of such a feeling?” It is some time ere I can answer him, and not alone my voice trembles.

“You have proved at least the greatness and nobleness of your heart when you ask me now in face of alii to- he your wife. But I can give only one answer.’ 1 “And that, of course, must be No l But why? Why? Let us reason it out; let us take each obstacle/ one by one, and look it in the face. You ara not afraid that I shall interfere with your work or permit other duties to crowd it out- of your life. The home I offer is as sure,, as anything mortal! can be. My means are neither precarious nor uncertain, since my 'investments are sound and secure. There is no practical reason for your refusal. What, then is between us? The shadow of an old fancy, a youth’s first admiration of outward beauty? It died when I saw you, if not before, and I have ceased to wonder at my own fatuity, so completely have you absorb d my thoughts. And what you would have divide us should bring us all the nearer. Were I the slandered, you would be the first to prove your belief in me. Is there so much less grace in me?” “But it is not slander, and even the slander I cannot refute. I can never tell you more than you know,” I say. “I shall not ask more, since Love and Faith are one. Put it aside. My happiest days were those wherein we worked together, my most exquisite bliss the memory of them, the dream that

that might become my daily life, and your undivided companionship be mine. Violet, eay that the dream sha)ll come truer’ . It is a strong temptation, stronger a hundred-fold than when we stood, xn the autumn sunlight on the mil. I 3hade my eyes, not daring to look at him, and force myself to think of his brMiant career, his position, the result of years of uphill labour, of . every chance and prospect that are his. Am I to be his cloud, his blight, his shadow? .-‘To the old question comes the old answer,” I say, at length. “Don’t ask me any more. I shall never marry.” _ “You refuse me finally. There is then the obstacle I feared. I left the worst to the last, cund it is that you have no affection for me.” n I press my hand hard upon the carvI7igf of my chair. Without somo suoh counteraction of physical pain I should - cry aloud in my torture. “Is it so, Violet?” he asks. Is it quite impossible that you can ever give the love I seek? Is it hopeless?” “Hopeless,” I echo, hoarsely. It is the one word befitting me. “Must I go?” „ . .. “Yes, go!” I cry, almost frantically. “It is the only kindness you can show me now! Never speak of this again, rihauild we ever happen to meet, though it is better that we should not. Leave me. I was meant to he alone, and it is all I desire —all I ask!” . There is >a silence; one I would ram prolong, but, like all else, it ends. “As you wish,” he says quietly. Once a friend always a friend —we don’t need to renew our old covenant! You know where to find me if you wish to prove my fidelity. Good-bye.” He does not touch my hand, he seeks no kindlier farewell, no softer words of parting, breathes no more impassioned adieu. The quiet tones of his voice die. ' I hear bis slow departing steps; soon too their echoes will be gone, and never any more whilst I live Oh, I can suffer I can endure, but human, strength has its limit, human agony its consummation ! What shall succeed this final parting I dare not think. I have torn out my heart; I have made the last renunciation. Never any more whilst I live! Slowly, noiselessly I turn, staring after him with almost sightless eyes, strained for the last glimpse -of sunshine that ever shall he mine. That looking-back 1 Why should he, too, turn to see my face, into which has leapt all the long-imprisoned love and yearning of my heart? Why should he turn to, show me the anguish of a strong man’s soul, the mute pathetic reproach of white lips and blinded eyesP There is a sound like stormy waters in my ears, a dreadful chaos of thought and emotion and memory, an overwhelming darkness, and then the cessation of existence.. Faintly I struggle back to life, revived I know not how, called back by some mysterious means. Where am IP Where! In Eric’s arms, held fast to his heart, his lips burning on my own, broken words of love and comfort breathing life into me. “No, not alone my friend,” he says, “but my love, my heart’s darling, my own wife!” The reaction is too much, the joy too great; I cannot resist-, I cannot send him from me. lean only weep, yielding to rushing tears and convulsive sob®, and he, patient as a another, bears with me and soothes me—my king, my hero, true and chivalrous beyond all outward seeming. “TJnto this all days and nights have led me,” and every sorrow and :suffering are well atoned for. Dear is the stony road when hither h»a® it led me; blessed is the bitter sea Which ends in such a haven. Like a star, ever casting a clear and steady nay, constant and unchanging from the first true friend, unselfish lover, I see him in the past through all. Oh. as I look up from these pages at ah instant my pen pauses m the record otf my life, I meet stdill the brave dark eyes that tell me of a faith and love that never faltered through $ good or ill, that will ■' be mine while earthly life endures, and will no less abide through eternity itself. “Never mind,” he says, when I struggle to overcome and subdue- my emotion. “Henceforth your joys and griefs alike are mine, and I dlaim the right to know them.” There comes upon me a calmness, a rest I have never known before. “Above ' us breaks a single star through depths of melting twilight,” and outer sounds seem to belong to another and a halfforgotten world. “Why were you so cruel to me ?” he asks. “Why did you so nearly send me away desolate?” . I look at him with a mourni illness I cannot hide. “This is more cruel, I fear.” ‘Why? Because you will link with zuine your sweet, pure life, your love, your fame, your future? Why are you 00 eager to sacrifice me? —to kill my hopes, to deny me. and my feelings one •tofn of consideration?” He does not wait for an answer. Laying his hand on my shoulder, he looks etmdfly at me. “Y'oii have your secret, Violet. Should you ever dearie or need to tell it me. I ■wiH hear it then, but not until thenTboro is no reason why it should cause • shadow to rise between us, f ar less bo the source of a lifelong, separation.

Banish it as far os possible from your thought®. It has caused you suffering enough. Do you know how wan and ill you look? I insist on my Violet being treated more kindly.” We have much to speak of, much to recall, much to tell each other. He confides to me the stony of his fancy for Madeline Quenton; hut when I come to tell him a little of my life at Staneldrk, is it not of him—is not his even then the helping hand? Even then my romance was beginning, already one of my ambitions was to win his praise. “Do you remember telling me at Comrie that you would many only because you loved and were beloved?” he asks. “Why did you refuse me?” “I did not think the last /condition was fulfilled." “Do you think so new ?” I do not answer him in words, nor do they seem requisite. “And what about the first?” he persists, and I answer him the simple truth, that the first condition was fulfilled then. “Do you remember,” it is my turn to ask, “advising me not to many?” “I never advised you not to many me; prohibition stopped there. Treat the advice as. advice generally is treated, and with the scorn you often showed the donor.. I have not forgotten our last parting in this very square, when, with one cool, matter-of-fact sentence, you extinguished a spark of hope I had with the utmost difficulty enkindled. Have you forgotten ? I offered, with the most abject humility, my advice on a certain Subject, and you uttered a fervent thanksgiving that you were neither my sister nor my wife. Time is not long enough for vour atonement to me.”

We certainly contrive to forget time and other things. Agnes’s arrival breaks the spell, and so absorbed have we been that she comes upon us unawares.

“Bless me!” she ejaculates. Eric is not in the least disconcerted. He rises to greet her easily and tranquilly. “With all my heart, kind fairy.” he says; “and now bless me.” She looks from one to the other of us, her arms lightly folded. “If there is any meaning in what I saw, my good sir, you are blest already.” “Congratulate me, then, when you have quite recovered from the surprise.” ... . “Surprise!” she- echoes, with disdain. “Do you think I did not know alii along? I am stupid, hut I can. see through a window When it’s 'open.” “There’s quite a flavour of the oracle there. How easy it is to prophesy after the event!” he says provoking'y. “loan venture on one little prophecy before the event.” sihe retorts. “ The bride carried a magnificent bouquet of violet®, the girt of the bridegroom.’ ” Erie look® at me with a shrug. “Miss Damoch believes we shall wait until violets are to be had, just to give her the chance of saying she knew it all along and told us so.” “I have heard,” she retorts, maliciously, “that you . always advise women of genius not to many.” “I can lay my hat on my head and solemnly aver that I meant as a class', not individually.” Agnes laughs. Cheerful She always us, and to-night she enters into our joyouisne&s with her own radiant forgetfulness of self. Eric’s parting words are true, that 'he leaves me in kind and good hands; then he is gone, hut how different is our parting from w'hat might have been, from what so nearly was; how different is my every emotion! Sleep is impossible, and when Agnes leaves me, I walk softly to and fro, ml one with my joy, my pride, my gratitude. Is it really I, Who (hilly this morning was so forlorn and saddened, really I who feel perfect happiness thrilling my veins with now and rigorous life? Love interprets all that bias gono before, shows me why certaiin tilling® have been permitted, give® a new and fuller meaning to every detail of my existence. How is it that Eric has chosen me out of all others, others lowlier and more gifted? In it, indeed, within my power to mako tlio happiness of his life and homo? My thoughts fix themselves on that homo picturing us working together, with mutual sympathies, hopes and aims, in perfect harmony and union, our interests identical, our tastes the same. And therewith I remember my loss. Comradeship in intellect-, ip pursuit, will not again be ours. There is a light In the studio, and I go in slowly, reluctantly, as to a grave. I unlock my desk, and glance over the papers so painfully thrust away. Of sad hours they remind me. A dull polling in my heart and brain is inseparable from them. What wil Erie say when tell him that the gift he prized in me is g or , ie p_tlhe talent that drew us together forsaken meP I lean my face oil my hands, recalling its dawn—-my first efforts in the grim house at Stgnokirk. recalling all my life, ail the scenes in which I behold my own figure, until it assumes a form romantic, seeming not my own but another’s, centre and source of marvels, until through . a haze of visionary memories one clear idea develops. and chaotic fragments are bilent into on© comprehensive Whole by that sudden, long-absent flash of inspiration, which I know and welcome as one of the indescribable joys 'of life. It is midnight ere I leave my desk, midnight or®

tße pen fails from my fingers, and with throbbing heart I thank God that He has restored my power, called my intellect from its catalepsy, awakened my imagination from its death-like trance. Then to sleep, to dream, until twittering sparrows waken me, and dawn breaks through the city haze. At first I tmnk my happiness is hut 'one of the glorious visions land angels bring us in. our sleep, then I remember/that it is all true,’not only the return of my mental vigour, but Eric Harden’s love. When shall I realise this last? All the rapture of the day before returns, all the strange delight. When Agnes and I meet, I can only put my arms about her and tell her tihat I am so happy. “So you should be,” she returns, promptly. “And so is another person.” . “Do you think that? Agnes, do you really? It is so hard for me to judge. I have been trying to think'about it all, dispassionately and unselfishly, but X cannot. Have I done well in this? Shall I bo tbo cause of estrangement between him and his friends? Will hie love for mo and his faith in me end in loss and deprivation to himsell P” “Well, I think in gaining you he gains all ho most desires. Can’t you realise what love means to a man eo alone and no reserved, so sensitive behind his mask of marbleP Self-rolinnce is all very well, bub some time the arms of Moses will want holding up. Ilf it was not good for man to be alone even in sinless Eden, I don’t know what it is for him in tbo would we are in now.” 1 When she goes into the studio for her usual! morning’s work, I follow her as of olid, I am able to resume my pen, and she laughs triumphantly, falling mo that here at least she did tell me so, I l ead in cold blood the lines written during last night’s fervour. I have known the sense of disappointiuent and of failing to reach my aim too often to ba daunted by it now. Eric lias been my inspiration, and I shall not fail, remembering that my fame is bis. Love's baud has led me back to my own dear realm of fancy. Why have I troubled, Why have I vexed myself, since all is made rigid, and my heart’s desire is given me? Well may one wait in faith and patience heaven’s own time of succour and healing. Noo-n brings me the usual assortment of letters; appeals from struggling writers who believe that a word from a successful author to editor or publisher independent of merit; pitiful confidences will ensure the acceptance of their work, and appeals; MSS. of a heart-breaking kind; a permission to publish “tho accompanying story” as my own, if I will pay the writer’s rent; offers of poems, plots, incidents; petition® for autographs and photographs; and the other trouble®.

of success that reach one through the post. Last of all I find a letter from Adelaide Verrard, telling me on what date my play will be produced, and placing a box at my disposal. A terrible fit of nervousness takes possession olf me, an insane desire to fly from London to the remotest wilds of my native land. “I cannot go, Agnes,” I say, after die has read the' letter, and executed a triumphant waltz. “I am afraid of hearing the people hiss. It does seem the most stupid thing I have ever written.” “This is a fine compliment to Miss Verrard’s judgment. And the audience are more likely to call for the author than to hiss. You don’t seem to understand how great is your popularity. Besides, I want to see- your play, and I eihaiT consider you very selfish if you don’t invite me and some other berry-pickcrs to join you and Mr Harden. Why are you so afraid?” The recollection that my play is onily a curtain-raiser to a new drama by a mas-ter-hand, and. that the attention of the audience will be chiefly concentrated on this restores my courage. Besides,lVhave never been in a theatre, and lam very desirous of seeing Miss Verrard act. “Of course, you will he guided by the doctor’s advice,” says Agnes, “and here, most opportunely, he arrives.” “The doctor? I’m not ill, Agnes.” “You Were yesterday, uiy dear, until this most admirable physician came, prescribing himself as 3 r our remedy. His practice is of necessity limited, and his patients l'ow.” It is indeed Eric who comes, with almost. rnoro flowers than ave can accommodate, and as Agnes leaves the room to search for vases which I know don t exist, ho shows me another gift, the first ring I have ever worn. I nave much to eay to him, much to remind him of, much to a sic him, before it is put on, but all my doubts are soothed away, my feare assuaged, and my engagement is begun in a blissful peace.. I can tell him quietly of all the anxieties that have ached in my heart, of the long period of blankness, sure of hi® sympathetic comprehension. Only a kindred* soul couild understand the tortures of such a time. “Your troubles had weighed too heavily on you,” he says; “or (with the aar of one suddenly inspired), “you have been asked for a synopsis! It is a wellknown fact in the profession that when an oditor wishes to reduce an author to hopel ess melancholia or drived mg imbecility he commands the unhappy being to write a synopsis. Many bright vming lives have ended m Bedlam or, the penitentiary 'or despairing exile through no other cause. May I see your latest?” . . , . Rather timidly I bring it, for lie is a just ©ritic, and his affection -will not blind him to the flaws in my work, watch anxiously as his accustomed eve

glanoos over the pages. To my delight, not only his approval is forthcoming, bat his commendation, and he Dronounees it a marked advance on anything I have previously written. Sweet is his praise. True is the seeming paradox that the love of many is but a smalil tiling to the love of one. I have next to show hifn Miss Verrard’s letter and tell to him how nervousness contends with a desire to he present. “Oh, I will help you to hear the glory,” ho says, amiably; “and a first night is a sight worth seeing, too. Evorard’s drama will draw all London.” “I should like to see that. X have always wished to see Miss Verrard act, too.” “She is a fine actress,” he says. “To see her sway her audience just as she chooses is a marvellous sight.” “Do you remember the invitation she gave me?” “And how you provoked me to wrath by your reception of my meek counsel ? You did not go, of course. I knew you would not bo so far abandoned to your own devices.” “What have you against her ?” I ask. “Personally, nothing. But I don’t approve of her as a friend for my friends, and I have fought her influence out of many a field. I could tell of at least one souTi that would yet be white, had my warning been heeded, and Miss Verrard’s lead not been followed along the primrose-way whence side paths branch to the Thames. A bad woman doesn’t seem able to .bear goodness, in her sisters, and then she begins to .do the fiend’s work more effectually than he can kimse?f. I have not spared Miss Verrard, and naturally she hates, me. I don’t; want you to meet her. without the foothght-barrier between,” . I am depressed by this glimpse into a dream; and Eric, toe, looks grave and thoughtful until Agnes returns, when he asks her if we are to believe that she has spent all this time in a search for flower-holders.

We tallk about the approaching first night, and it .is decided to make up a smalil party for that occasion, including some of Agnes’s artistic friends. My fears vanish, and I find myself ■ looting forward with an eager excitement for which I cannot altogether account. .Do I think, the pigmy will . overtop the giant?—the preface be better than the book ?—playgoers esteem iny maideneffort' before the work of Everard’s skilful, long-practised hand? Do I fear miserable, deserved collapse'—scornful laughter, contemptuous disapproval? No such vanity., no su.ch cowardice troubles my mind. Out of the future some vast event is looming, and nothing that I .know, nothing that 1 foresee, accounts for the mighty foreshadowing. (To be Continued.)