FICTION.

New Zealand Times, Volume LVI, Issue 2110, 20 January 1894, Page 2 (Supplement)

FICTION.

FETTERS OF FIRE. By COMPTON READE. CHAPTER XXIV. A Missive of Mekcy. John Crucival slept, or rather, dulled his sense to stupidity, during the whole of the following day. With the morrow, however, came tile consciousness of rest, indeed, his brain felt the calm of indifference, and when the post brought him a letter in his wife’s handwriting ho suffered it to lie unopened while he finished a scanty breakfast.

To tell the truth, the man almost lacked the courage to read this epistle. He dared not anticipate good; ho dared not meet evil, and felt half inclined not to read her missive at all. A sudden impulse, however, broke the envelope, and ho learned his fate. This was—in fact —her parting shot: “I told you we had erred in assuming relations which have filled me with a sense of degradation. A union sanctified by love may be beautiful, whereas one so loveless as ours has been must be hideous. blame should bo equally shared. You were infatuated, I was hopeless, and in ray simplicity of heart ready for a sacrifice no woman can submit to without loss of self-respect. Nemesis soon came. I felt humiliated, spiritless, miserable. You were_ far from happy—how could you be anything of the kind with a fretting wife ? Accident at this crisis of our lives has restored the one human being who held the mastery of me. He lias offered to abandon all for my sake. I ought to have refused, but I cannot. It may be wrong, if to follow the light of pure love bo wrong, and you will consider it a grievous crime against yourself. Is it so ?°I think not. I think, after the break, you will feel a sense of relief—-at all events I hope so from the bottom of my heart, for the memovy of your devoted affection and constant kindness can never be effaced. Believe me, the injury I have done you is not in severing an unnatural tie, but in permitting it ever to bo formed. That was my grievous fault, and for that I crave your pardon. The step I am now taking will redeem that injury in part, and at all events sot you free from the trammels of a wife who could he no wife to you. Dear John—if I may yet think of you so—l shall count you as a true friend, and I am sure that if we had remained content with friendship only, wo should have been loving companions to the end. “ One word more. You are a man. Be strong. Forgot. I don’t ask for forgiveneasJ!!that would be impossible ; but I beg you to obliterate my wretched self altogether, and be the man you were before I entered into your life, to. poison it; we shall never meet again he?e or hereafter, so farewell ! „ *’ Li was.

“Gone!” ho groaned, and that was. all that escaped his lips. took her - letter, replaced it in the envelope, and locked it carefully in his iron safe. As he laid it by tho Side of other documents of value, his, eye glanced at the postmark on th e envelope, ft was “ Dover.” Then he went to his chamber, closed the door, and took np his Bible. It had been his habit for many years to try a Bihliana Sars, not in the spirit of fatalism, but for a divine message. He folt now, if ever in his life, tho need of guidance, for hia own judgment soomed to ho foolishly at fault, so ho opened the sacred volume haphazard, and his eye lighted on the passage, “ In your patience possess ye your souls/* Yes. Patience, divine patience, that was the sole anodyne for a wounded spirit. The message could not have spoken more comfortably, and he knelt down humbly, while yet the thought of the desire of his eyes having been taken from him burned like a firebrand, to breathe the prayer of an honest and broken heart. Broken hej knew himself to be. The melody had departed from his ear, the sunshine from his eyes ,• he was desolate and void, and for the first time home seemed not merely distasteful hut intolerable. The glory of Gruiival was faded, its magic spell ended, evenhis ancestry but as a tale that is told. Pride of birth, pride of race, pride of power, all had ceased, and John the Squire vowed in the presence of God to be squire no longer. He would be one of the crowd, and in utter obscurity drag on existence as usefully as he might, till the hour arrived for his summons home to a world whereinto falsity can never enter. He wasalready engaged in sketching the outline of a plan, when Mr Robinson was announced. , , , . ~ , The man who confronted him resembled now, in no one particular, that jaunty, magnificent tourist on tho Osteud steamer. His “xandenr had vanished, his nerve seemed shaken, his eye unsteady, his whole demeanour that of .a guilty, crouching, fawning scoundrel. The Squire himself noted his changed appearance, but with a hasty glance only. Ho did not stand and transfix tho rogue who had swindled him o£ so large a sum of money ; on the contrary, with a-gt&pe quite beautiful—the grace not merely of-- a perfect breeding! but of a perfect heart also—he advanced with the god-like design of pouring coals of fire on his enemy’s head. ~ . , “Mr Robinson.” he said, in a low, sad tone, qualified a little by a tender smile, “ shake hands.” , ... ~ The man had been acting humiliation pulling a visage de circonstance, expecting to bo more or less reprimanded, and then restored to favour under perhaps hard conditions. The Squire’s reception, however, was so very different from that so free from reproach, so splendidly forgiving, that it fairly subdued him, Hastily pre-

paring a limp hand, he averted his head to hide a flood of unbidden tears. But it was uo good attempting disguise ; he fell back on a chair, and shading his face with both hands, sobbed like a child.

“My good fellow,” faltered John Crucival, in the same anguished tone, “don’t! Your burden is less heavy than mine.” ■ ■

The words amazed Mr Robinson: Kindly drying his eyes and composing his features, he awaited his master’s utterance.

“ You have not heard what has happened ? Of course you have not, for the intelligence has only just reached me. I have lost my wife.” “ Not dead, sir ?” " No.” “ Something gone wrong with Mrs Crucival’s head, I fear ?”

“ Nothing wrong with imr head : much otherwise. The news will soon be, all over the country, so ” (with an effort) “ there need bo no concealment. My wife has deserted me, and, I believe, has gone abroad.”

“ Pardon my asking. Has she gone alone ?”

“ Oh, no—at least, I conclude not.” "Was she in the company of Mr Charles Fitzhugh ?” “ Why do you ask ?” “ Because I espied that gentleman on board the Calais boat. He was in the company of a lady, and I think that lady may have been Mrs Crucival.” “ You saw them at Dover ?” “ Yes. As wo returned from Ostoud the Calais steamer was leaving.”

“ Did Fitzhugh recognise you ?” " Certainly not; and I did not see the face of the lady, his companion. But now you mention it, I have no doubt of her identity.” The Squire reflected a moment. “ Mr Robinson,” he said, “ I might bring you in a heavy debtor to a large extent, but we will write that off, if you please. In return I shall expect you to render me a service, and one which may involve considerable trouble, besides the exorcise of intelligence on your part. I’ve no doubt Fitzhugh is travelling under an assumed name. You must first learn by enquiry at Dover, and elsewhere if necessary, what that name is. Then with all speed follow them, and when—if ever—you trace them, wait your chance till Mrs Crucival happens to ho alone, xilace a letter I will give you into her hand, and return without a word. Should she force an answer upon you —and I don’t think she will—refuse to accept it. Now, are you prepared to carry through that programme ?” “ You will provide me witli funds ?” “ Of course.” “And my wife? We are almost penniless.”

“You may rest assured she shall not want.”

“ Sir, it will be a melancholy gratification to be able to render you any service, however small, and ” « This is not a small service,. Mr Robinson, and it is one moreover requiring promptitude. You must start at once.”

“ I am completely at your disposal, air.” « You’d bettor stop to luncheon, run up to town this evening, and down to Dover by to-morrow morning. Travel first-class, and don’t screw for money. You may have a long journey before you —perhaps to the other side of the world, so it won’t do to knock up along the road.” With that he sat down to his desk and wrote thus:

“ Dearest Lilias, I send this by the hand of Mr Robinson, and it requires no answer. Absent or present I shall always consider you my wife, and I wish you to understand that if ever you should break , oft the connection you have formed, I shall be ready to welcome you home right gladly. Please believe mo, that while you have changed, I have not, and never shall. “ Your sorrowing husband, “ John Crucival.” The letter written, ho re-read it twice, sealed it with an ancient signet bearing the Crucival arms with multitudinous quayterings, and placed it in Mr Robinson s hands, with “ May I trust you ?” “ Sir,” ho replied, “ X should be a monster were I to deceive you a second time.” ' The Squire held out his hand frankly as he murmured: __ “Let bygones be bygones.- No one knows what he may do, or where ho may drift to before temptation comes. There are judges on the bench who would have stood in the dock had they been environed by a less favourable set of circumstances. There are criminals at Portland who. would have 1 been judges if only they had been granted opportunity. I don’t sit in judgment on you, Mr Robinson. My business just now is to judge myself, without prejudice, and there’s the rub!” So the Squire took Mr Robinson s arm like an old friend, and led him in to luncheon, and the agent brisked up a little, and under the influence of Crucival Madeira began to give himself the airs of unsullied innocence. In vino veritas, and this man s veritas, his true nature, excelled in selfassertion, Had ho been a millionaire, manufacturer, or a mineral king, he would have blossomed into the most intolerable specimen of his species, and might almost have eclipsed an ordinary college don. They had just concluded a repast, to the hungrier of the two in every detail more than satisfactory, when the footman brought a card and said that ’ the ' gentleman was waiting. ‘ ' “ Mr’Amos Jinks.” “Show him’ in”!' was the Squires command, and in walked one of the Cockney sons of the illustrious Lady Jinks. 1 “ How-do, sir ? X want a word in private,

if convenient.” , “loan guess in some particulars.what your errand is, Mr Jinks, hut this is my confidential agent, so you may speak. First, let me offer you some luncheon!” « Nothing to h’eat,” was the quiet reply

“brinks is acceptable at all times. Towards Ha !”

’ And witli the celerity of a city waiter—for which part nature had evidently designed him—the young man emptied a bumper of Madeira into his vitals, smacking his lips to the tune of “ Rare good !” Then he turned to business.

“Possibly, sir, you’ve ’card the news about your wife and my cousin, Fitzyou.” John Crucival bowed. “ Too true,” he muttered, “.and a crushing blow, I fear, to Mrs Fitzhugh—as well as to me.” “ That h’ain’t h’it, sir, observed Mr Amos; waxing warm. “ Neither a feller like Fitzyou, nor a wench like your wife —” “ Pardon,” interposed the Squire, sternly. " You must not apply such an epithet to a lady in her own home, and before her husband.”

“No offence. I thought as you’d bo as. h’indignant as us is. But no matter. This h’ain’t a matter of sentiment. It’s wus nor that by a long chalk. Ho’vo bdltcd with my cousin’s money!” ' “My gracious !” ejaculated Mr Robinson. “ What a kettle of fish!” “ But how ?” asked John Crucival.

“It transpires, sir,” responded Mr Amos, “ that he bullied his wife into allowing her fortune —a hundred thou., all told—to be transferred to his name. But I maintain that didn’t give him no right to sell out every stick except a parcel of worthless mine shares, and hook it with another ■woman. Hey ?” “ I call that fraud,” observed Mr Robinson. “ And mo also,” continued Mr Amos. “ Why, poor Kate’s a beggar, and her children likewise. It’s the heartlesstost swindle as ever I heard on.”

“ You surprise me/' observed the Squire. " I did not realise that Charley was so black; but old Mr Fitzhugh, our vicar, will never lot the children starve, or the wife either."

“ Nor my ma. Lady Jinks, heithor," remarked Mr Amos, with lofty contempt on hia plebeian features. “ But that hain’t h'it. What’s to be done ?” Silence.

Mr Eobinson could have suggested a very simple course of action, but conscience kept him tongue-tied. “ J suppose, sir," observed Mr Amos, “ you intend putting on a detective to collect evidence for a divorce suit."

The Squire shook his head. “ Because what we thought was, that perhaps you’d share the expenses with us. No doubt the rascal will make tracks for one of the South American republics, or some out of the way place on the other side, so it will cost a trifle to nobble him—but we means it.”

“ I've no wish to interfere on my own account,” replied the Squire; “ and as regards Mrs Fitzhugh’s property, to do so would wear the semblance of vindictivencss.” _ ■ Mr Amos opened his eyes. So did Mr Robinson. " You remember, sir," whispered the latter, aside, “ that you settled _ every thing on your wife. Should she survive you, and no divorce bar the settlement, she would inherit. In fact, she remains your wife in the eye of the law, until such time as you sever the tie.” “ Quito so, Mr Robinson. I did not need the reminder. Mrs Crucival, should I be taken and she spared, will inherit.” "What!” cried Mr Amos, “and that rogue of a Fitzyou grab property as I’m .told is worth a couple of millions ! Never! You’re kidding, sir.” "I mean what I say,” answered the Squire, with calm dignity. “ And you won't join us in bringing of ’im to justice?” “ No, sir, I will not. Mind, I don’t say he ought to escape; beseems afar worse blackguard than I over dreamt of. But I will not move a finger in your quarrelstill less in my own.” “ Blow mo tight!" gasped Mr Amos, in sheer astonishmens; and having thus relieved his pent-up feelings, rose to depart. Are you going back to town ?" asked Mr Eobinson. , “In course, an’ I Wish I 'adn’t come. Who’d have thought as any man would let such a wife as that off.” “ Kindly avoid mentioning my wife, reiterated the Squire, “ All right, gov’nor,” sneered Mr Amos, adding to Mr Eobinson, “Yes, I’m off to I London; but there ain’t.no train till the evening.” .. , , “Six-thirty from Dilford,” responded Mr Eobinson, “ and I’m due by that train also, if I can get my business settled with Mr Grucival. Shall I meet you at the station, . and we can travel together ?” “ Eight you are !” growled Mr Amos, helping himself unasked to another bumper of Madeira ; and then, having utilised his ' hand as a napkin, he offered it handsomely to the Squire. ' “ A dreadful cad!” ejaculated that gentleman, as Lady Jinks’ vulgar spawn retreated. " I don’t envy you your fellow traveller.” . . “ He may be utilised for information, observed Mr Eobinson; and then they sat down and arranged business details, very much to the agent’s gratification; for never had John Crucival displayed more lavish liberality. “You’ve let me in for nearly ,£20,000, Mr Eobinson,”, tie said; “ but it cheap- money if that tetter ’should b 6 de ; liyered into the hands of my wife':’.' • “'An'd it shall bo, sir,” lyas flu* rejoinder, “ if human’ ihgehfiity, cap manage it. Besides,’ I have liiy £i\tiirq to consider.’’ “'Success will - assume it,” Fas the quiet ; reply • apd’ gq the" agent h'urripJ oi£, mbpey , in'hand, apd ppih a fyied resolve -to track ■ ' the fugitives to the very ends of the earth. “ Yes,” soliloquised he, “ the Squire won’t be mixed up with Lady Jinks’ detec- ’ fives, but that’s no reason why I should ; decline their assistance. In fact, the sen- . sible thing will be to hunt in couples, and a detective will appreciate my company all the more because I happen to know the man’s phiz.’, and he doesn’t. Now for the

road, and hark—forward! A sly fox, that Charley Fitzhugh, but the scent’s strong!” CHAPTER XXV. Various Comforters. A week later Mr Peucanon was roaming the Crucival Woods in company with their sorrow-stricken lord. That noble man of God promptly responded to a request for his xiresenco on a brief visit. The Squire desired to consult him as to his future.

“Aglorious demesne/* was the spontaneous encomium passed by one, whose life had been devoted to mission work, on the broad expanse of old English forest scenery through which his host was conducting him. "What a glorious world God gave to man—what a ruin it is getting to be! Lancashire, except the north corner, the East and West Ridings, Staffordshii e, Warwickshire, Durham, parts of Worcestershire and Northumberland, the portions of London in Essex and Kent, what a wilderness it all is!”

“Yet may blossom as the rose/* added the Squire. “ Yes—spiritually. Nevertheless, squalor, drink and dirt render the rose-blossom that adorns such environment rather a paradox. My work- has been largely in the wilderness created by capital, and I give the victims of Mammon credit for sincerity. True, an iron life often makes a brazen atheist, and, witli an augmented education the people are beginning to ask the question—* Why should thousands slave that one may feast ?* and pessimism is being elevated into a popular creed, still my experience tells me that in these regions ’ of Erebus and Nox the proportion of , those who believe is larger than might be expected. The people, as a whole, are not. so Illogical as to avenge the wrongs or mis'fortunes of a cramped and hideous existence on their own souls. They' have a quarrel with society, and some day there will have to bo a reckoning, but the quarrel does not extend to God, though I grant sometimes the clay does turn on the potter with-—* Why hast thou made me thus ?’ J ’

“ Do you think I could be of any use in some such industrial centre ?” “Asa layman ?" “Yes. I don’t like the parish system. I should resent as a clergyman being confined to a limited area, wherein, however earnest I might be, I should be regarded as an almoner, and not as an evangelist. John Wesley’s ‘all the world is my parish’ would be my motto, but then he had broken from ecclesiastical fetters before ho could utter that proud boast.’’ “ Then you mean not only as a layman, but as a free lance? The Dissenters, as you may be aware, are boxed and confined by all sorts of superfluous regulations, designed apparently to foster the figment that each of their Communions is par excellence The Church. You would not, therefore, contemplate Dissenting ordination ?”

“ I don’t desire ordination at all. Neither is it my intention to assert myself above priest or minister. I have long had a wish for religious work—latterly the wish has become so intense as to amount to a call, and since my dear wife-left me alone in the world I have begun to believe that before me lie but two alternatives—work or insanity—l must fight the demon of sorrow by the angel of perpetual toil. Now the harder the task the more congenial will it be to my mood. I need the stimulus of resistance, and the comfort of something attempted, something done. The blacker, therefore, the country, the better.”

“ From every point of view. Chiefly because the clergy employed in that unprepossessing harvest field for tho most part exhibit a certain magnanimity towards volunteers. Tho work is so infinitely beyond their capacity that, when a helper comes, they don’t stop to ask whether he be lay or clerical, Anglican or Dissenting, provided his heart bo in tho right place. Oh, if it wore the same everywhere I” “ Woil, can you recommend me a particularly dark, neglected corner, where life is pandemonium, and Inst,' oppression, crime run hand in hand ? I’m not afraid of fever. Disease, dirt and drunkenness won’t stagger me. I shall attack them with the bravery of despair.” “ And persevere ?” “And persevere. 'Wellington told the thin rod line, as it formed into square on that memorable Sunday in June, that to retreat into the Forest of Soignies meant certain death. They might possibly advance. To go back was impossible. Now, when once I have wished my old house farewell, believe me—there will be no return. The lawns through which we have strolled —the flowers, the birds, the trees, the corridors and rooms in the Court, the poor old lame dog—all remind me of her, and she is gone ! How could I endure to live on hero with the spectre of a beloved presence ever haunting me! • No; I will leave. X will burn my bridges. I will , obliterate my very name, for it carries honour with it no longer. . And lastly, on a crust I will try what I can to help the people who walk in darkness by bringing the great light to their doors. ' Now where shall I go Mr Pencanon reflected. “ Do you know Perreosham “ Dark enough. " if have passed the hj 'tttuft. ' A ‘ fofest " of. ’ chimneys and eteriial'cUng.” ‘ ‘ “ And’fhiAe Khhdr.ed thousand spiels Tyii& but few 1 shepherds,* and' tljdse _ fpyf,' feebjs folk. ‘ Ypar.a ago ’ a. dissenting luminary Nourished tlrere"/ and literally, laboured alilpa faithfully apd ‘ ffut departed’tp a b.ettpf ’%«s(, apd tX\© plagp sadly w-apts ap apostle” u Do you know any of . the clergy F* “ Yes. One, an Irishman, who dawdles through the week with the aid of newspapers and magazines, and on Sunday fires off two orations more vapid than pointless —if that be possible.” “ What! Dawdle in the midst of incessant industry!” “ Oh, the old story. Mortified vanity. Tried to cope with a hydra-head, and dashed

by the first repulse, gave in, and relapsed into lotus eating—the end of so-called earnestness often enough.” “ Hut the man’s a drone.” “Go and wake him up —if you can. I can't. Berhaps if he finds you are winning, ho may hazard one more try. But I’m not sanguine.”

“ Will you introduce me !■'” “No. Better not. If I introduce you by your right name, he’ll turn toady ; if’by a pseudonym, he’ll snub you. Go down there. Hire anything in the way of a shed —a railway arch will do, and feel your way. M uch- poverty, imioh pain, much privation, will meet you at every turn, and if you once begin giving, mark me, they will very soon take your measure, and the old story, ‘ Ye seek me because of the loaves,’ will be repeated. Take my advice. Wear your oldest coat. Be yourself poor among the poor, humble amidst the humble, and you may gain their ear. I don’t say you will, unless, indeed, you exhibit the zeal of a Wesley iind the pertinacity of a St. Paul. All depends on What is within you.” “ Thanks. I’ll follow your counsel —but will you come and give me a helping hand ? They will listen to you.” “ Will they ? Perhaps you’ll think otherwise ere long. They’ll listen to a pessimist, or a turf tout, or a prize fighter, provided he be unconverted; or a socialist, or a singer of ■ shameless songs. I know them by heart.. However, try. You are brave, dcvbid of-self-consciousness, and, as you put it, despairing. When the ground is broken a little, then will I come, like Apollo's, with my watering pot, and perhaps —but >1 am not over sanguine—help.” “ A very good reason why I should make the attempt. I asked for a forlorn hope, and you have given me one. Next Monday—” “ So soon ?” •‘ So late, rather. Life is short, and the best days already wasted.” “ And your npw name ?” “Anything. ’*Jones’ ‘John Jones’ won’t startle them by its originality.” Mr Pencanon smiled.

“ Mind,” added the Squire, “ I’m not going tp pitch my tent in any one place perpetually. When I feel that I’ve done my possible at Ferreosham, I shall move on to some other homo of horror, and it may end in my becoming peripatetic. Anyhow, I’ve get a beginning, thanks to your advice, and—”

“ You’ll have to bear up against disappointment, brutality and insult. Ferreosham is no cosy country living, where everything is pleasant, and the poor have the manners of gentlepeople. You will plunge from the warmth of aristocracy into the ice of democracy, and take care it does not chill your ardour.” “ I hope not —I think not —I feel not,” replied John Crucival. “A month ago this programme would have staggered me. Since then ballast has dropped off, and I am changed.” So they returned to the Court, and the details of the scheme thus roughly outlined were discussed and settled. Then Mr Pencanon left, reckoning every hour of his time golden—as indeed it was.

There was yet one more experience m store for this sorrowful soul before the break was made, and the man of taste and fortune,-of. culture and breeding, descended from his pedestal to seek comfort among scones calculated to revolt every fibre in a refined nature. He had borne up against a blow that stunned at first a sensitive disposition, yearning after human- love, and prizing beyond rubies even its semblance, so long as the adored object remained by his side. He had pulled himself together sufficiently to chalk out his immediate future. He had met the greatest of injuries with a forgiving spirit, that testified to the reality, of his religion. The last trial he had to endure was pity, commiseration ; and that almost maddened him, though pride concealed his real feelings. Tom Tamper—honest, if rather reckless Bohemian-;—felt mortified beyond expression at the turn affairs had taken. If John Crucival had been deceived, he himself had believed as an article of faith in Charley Fitzhugh. The young man’s faults appeared to bo on the surface, and to his limited intelligence were amply condoned by the awful wife he had married. _ Ho was a gentleman, too, by birth, by education, in manners—and- one instinctively accredits a gentleman with honour; indeed, the rule is so universal as to preclude the bare suspicion of an exception. No marvel that gay and festive Toni, with his easy ideas of morality, and led by an epicrean creed, in his heart preferred Charley’s naughtiness to John Crucival’s saintliness; for the one to him seemed human, the other quasi-epicene ; transcendentalism as ho would have phrased it—taken au serieux. But he didn’t bargain for his old college friend’s wife being handled as big game. The Duplessis’ and Dovely’s were, from his standpoint, fair sport, and “roses picked the sweetest shower can ne’er make grow again.” Lilias, however, was different, and to place her in the same category with the playthings of a profligate’s passions seemed sacrilege. So, with a heavy heart, he took the train to Dilford, and when he arrived on the platform, felt so ashamed and sorry as to be almost incapable of meeting the Squire. But for a sense of obligation, the thought that he might be blamed by others as well as by his own by no means hypersensitive conscience, for his folly in bringing two whilom lovers in close juxtaposition, ho would positively have gone back to London without accomplishing the purpose of his journey. Your true epicurean ever shrinks from disagreeables, just as he evades responsibility by shirking it. It chanced, however, while he stood hesitating whether or not to call a cab and drive straight—as ho had intended—to Crucival Court, that a happy thought flashed across his inventive.brain.

“ I’ll invent a butler,” mused he, “ and then, poor dear Jack Crux can’t bo veryhard on me. Suppose 1 try and persuade that blessed old Vicar to accompany mo f

So he chartered a vehicle to the Vicarage, and fortunately found good old Fitzhugh at home.

“Pardon intrusion, air!” He had never set eyes on the venerable clergyman before. “My name’s Tamper. Daresay you know me—l’m the author of the 'Scaly Scarabceus’ and other works.”

“ A tract ?” enquired the Vicar. “ No, sir, nothing 20 proper; a burlesque.” “ On geology, I suppose ?” responded Mr Fitzhugh, not realising that Tom meant a drama. “ The conclusions of the geologists, sir, are most hasty and impertinent, and perhaps satire may bo a proper vehicle wherewith to attack them. 1 shall bo happy to purchase a copy of your book,” extract- ; ing his purse. “ Nuisance !” soliloquised Tom. “ The old chap evidently thinks I’m touting some literary rubbish of mine.” “ No, no,” he said. “ I don’t want to sell any of my nonsense. I’m a playwright.” “ Oh!” muttered the Vicar, as though he had said ‘ I’m an escaped criminal lunatic.” “Wo haven’t a theatre at Dilford, I—l’m glad to say.” This seemed rather a back-handor, but Tom was in no mood to take affront, and withal both grasped and overlooked the notions of the old school, whereof Mr Fitzhugh loomed large as a fine specimen. “ I’m very stupid,” ho pleaded, humbly, “ but the plain fact is I’m an old college chum of your good neighbour, Mr John Crucival, and till yesterday I may say I thought myself the friend of your ill-starred nephew, Charley,” “Sir,” said the Vicar, sternly,* “be good enough not to name that young man s name—at all events in my presence. I pray for him, sir, but he is erased—yes, erased for ever from my brain.” How this venerable gentleman could supplicate for a sinner he had thus completely obliterated from the tablets of his memory was a problem a mere Hohemian could not attempt to solve. Tom felt it was rather off his line, so proceeded. “ I mentioned your nephew, sir, incidentally. Depend upon it, if ever I meet him 111 give him a square bit of my. mind jn, the vulgar tongue, and then cut the skunk dead. I didn’t come here to talk about him, but about our injured friend, the Squire.” “Injured, indeed, sir ! Was there ever a man so devoted to a woman ? Providence has shattered the idol, and no doubt it is for the best.” “ A most comfortable doctrine,” thought Tom. It gave him a hint. “The very idea running through my. mind, air, and expressed, if you will allow me to say so, with a theological accuracy which gives it a very telling force. Now, can’t we get our dear, good friend to sec it in that common sense —I beg pardon—that theological, light ?” _ ' “ I don’t quite follow you,” remarked Mr Fitzhugh, who still felt rather hazy on the object of Tom’s visit. “ Simply this—if you will forgive. the. abruptness of a man who has run down from town to try and pour oil on an injured, friend’s gaping wounds, and must go back again as soon as maybe—l feel that I, ought, to assure the Squire of my sympathy. Now, if Igo alone, he will break down X know he will, and I shall, too. I d give a hundred pounds, sir, rather than endure the agony of so bad a quarter of an hour. It occurred to me, therefore, that if you could be so very kind as to accompany me—ahem, I have a conveyance at the door!” Mr Fitzhugh looked dubious. “You are quite on intimate terms with Mr Crucival, I think you said.” * - ' • “ Well. He dined with me, and brought/ his wife and I was his guest at the Court, , not two months ago, and I saw them nearly every day when they were in Ashley “ Quito an intimate. I will ask my wife her opinion—l meant. as to whether my visit would be acceptable. I have hesitated as tc approaching our friend, thinking it better to let the force of this desertion expend itself, but perhaps —” And in this vein of indecision he toddled out of the room.

“Gone to ask permission of the grey mare,” sneered Tom. “ There’s a caution for donkeys about to marry I The idea of a grand old crusted gentleman like that having to ask leave of some petticoat to go and see a friend ! It’s not merely humiliatin" to the gender. It’s downright loathsome. If ever I—well, I hope someone will send me straight to Hanwoll. No unlimited liability for Tom Tmnpor; one might as appropriately sell oneself into slavery.” . In the middle of all this blatant misogynism, in toddled the aged Vicar, with hat and stick. The grey mare apparently acquiesced, so they drove direct to the Court. , Its owner received them with a little less than his pristine grace. Ho would have preferred to escape Job s comforters, but they meant kindly, and he gave them a welcome —rather a wan one. “ John,” half sobbed the Vicar, “ I’m very sorry.” ~ , ' . The Squire pressed the old clergyman s hand, but did not, or else could not, respond in words. “ And I,” blurted Tom, “ should like to swear, but in the presence of a parson I can’t.” # , . . “ Strong language won t mend a broken life,” replied the Squire. “ But I know what you feel, and thank you. Hero ensued an awkward, indeed, a ghastly pause. Emotion seemed to have tied the tongues of the two visitors, and their host waited for them to utter. At last the Vicar observed sententiously : “ You rightly interpret, John, the general sentiment. It is, I assure you,_ one ,of profound compassion, qualified by righteous indignation at those who have requited kindness with ingratitude, and affection with falsity.” To tell the truth, the good man had been thinking out that little speech during the drive from Dilford to Crucival, and it came out quite pat.

“ Yes,” added Tom, “ and what’s more, my boy, they are all saying in town that a woman who could chuck a good fellow for such a scamp as Charley isn’t worth fretting about. You are to be congratulated on being shut of a bad lot.” For once, however, Tom had fired far wide of the mark. John CrucivaTs cheeks flushed, his eyes flashed fire, and he turned on the cynical Bohemian with : “ I’ll trouble you, Tamper, to remember that the lady you are coarsely traducing is my wife.” “ Say was,” snapped Tom, standing on the defensive.

“ No— is. Wo are not divorced, nor shall human law dissever the tie of God.”

“ Surely—?” ejaculated Torn, and the Vicar shook his head as it were in protest. What is theologically orthodox is not always on all fours with mundane wisdom, whereof this venerable clergyman possessed a rich store.

“ Friends,” cried the wounded man, his voice slightly trembling, his hands twitching, “you have come on an errand of sympathy, and wish to offer a lenitive to my grief. Thank you both truly. But you won’t comfort mo by abusing her, neither as a matter of right can I permit it for an instant. I’ll tell yon why. The fault of this crime against God lies not at her door, but at mine. I was a vain fool, who basely tempted a poor lonely orphan to betray the holiest instincts of womanhood by the bribe of a home. Had I looked in the glass I should have realised that she never could love me. I know as much, indeed, for she told mo so ; and yet assurance and romance urged mo forward. My wealth bought a wife, but could not buy that wife’s heart, and an unnatural union must have ended either in her early death—for, as you know, her health began to give way—or in her breaking the chain I had forged. You know the result.”

“John,” gasped the Vicar, “you are a noble fellow!” “Jack !” shouted the Bohemian, “That’s all sentimental balderdash. ‘lf thy ■nymph no favour show, choose another—lot her go J Dash it! a man can have two -wivss in Turkey, yet I never heard of any country where a plurality of husbands was possible. It’s a bad job, John, but if I were in your shoes ” . “ Which you don’t happen to bo,” interrupted the Squire, rather testily. “I took her —she me—for bettor or for worse. Had the issue been better I should not have forsaken her; now that it is worse ii fortiori I must not. Some day she may need, not me, but my aid.” “ But,” pleaded Tom, “ she is living as Charley’s wife. Why not lot her hear his name ?”

“He has a wife already.” “ Oh, for the matter of that you may trust Madame Kate to go for a divorce, and a prosecution to boot.” “It would be preferable, I think,” interrupted the Vicar, "not to mention that person—l mean my wretched nephow. I have erased him, John, from my recollection, and—ahem ! —from my will.”

“ For myself,” replied the Squire, “ I regret to hear you say so. I bear him no malice for the wrong done. After all, life is very short, and we shall soon find ourselves ‘ where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.’ A little more, a little less, patience—-what does it matter ?”

So they left him—these stupid Job’s comforters ; the Vicar profoundly impressed —the Bohemian proportionately disgusted. “To think,” quoth the latter to Madame Duplessis, " to think of a wise man being such a fool!”

' ' “ Not such a fool as ho looks,” was the -practical rejoinder of that estimable ornament of, the dramatic profession. “ Don’t I wish he was—l’d soon teach him how to spend his money!” Unintentionally she had paid a high tribute to a nature as far above her own as is the sun above the dirtiest gutter. (To he continued.)