THE NOVELIST.

Otago Witness, Issue 2009, 25 August 1892, Page 37

THE NOVELIST.

By FABIAN BELL.

| Now First Published. |

HE AND SHE.

A COLONIAL STORY.

Author of "Stella," " After Long Years," "The Letter in Cypher," &c., &c.

CJIAFTEB IX. A Walpuvgis "^ifelifc, INNER duly appeared, bufc only Mr and Mrs Graham and Mr Bicbards sat down to partake of it. Each time the door opered Dick looked up with vague expectancy, but no fourth person joined the paity. "Where Is Mrs Webster?" asked Mr Graham. " Oh, she has a headache, aad asked to be excused," eaid the hostess querulGusly, " I msg£ say I think it very inconsiderate of her. I haye a headache too, but of course we can't both go to bgd." " I don't see the difficulty/ retorted her husband. " Richards and I can maka purselyes^uitß happy with the claret bottle ancl a boz of cigars." "Oh, I hope I am not so selfish as to neglect my guests like thafc," said Mrs Graham loftily, " bufc I say again it in yery inconsiderate of Mrs Webster." " People in that position shouldn't have nerves," said Mr Graham sarcastically. " Ob, ifc is nofc a nejpvoas headache," said hia wife'quickly, for she arrogated to herself a special prerogative in tbe matter of ner.vous ailments. "It's not nervous, it ig jntt bilious. She has been eating something that has disagreed with her." "So havo Ijt said Dick pleasantly. " I think ifc was cbojse orangeß. It is a good

thing you came when you (lid, or I should have been eating them still. By the way, what name did you say — Mrs 7 "

" Webster, Isabel Webster. Do you know any one of the name ? "

" No, not Isabel — I know no Isabel Webster."

"Itis a common name. And sometimes I have fancied it is not her own, for once or twice I called her Isabel and she did not answer. The children, especially Dolly, have shortened it to Mrs Webb, and we generally call her that."

"It does not much matter ; one name is as good as another, "said Dick, quite alive to the faot that ha had found a change of patronymics desirable. " OE course, only one doe 3 not like the idea of people going about under false names. They mußt surely have been up to some mischief, or done something very wrong. I could not sleep if I thought there was any one in the house under a false name. Why, we might all be murdered in our beds."

Dick whistled softly, caught himself up, apologised, and looked much amused.

" How can you be so foolUh, Mary," cried her husband testily. "Asif a name made any difference."

11 But it does make a difference," persisted Mrs Graham. "Don't house-breakers and bushrangers, and all those sort of people go about under false names, and it stands to reason that no one would want to change his name unless he wanted to hide, and people don't want to hide unless they have dove something wrong, and want to do something worse."

"Why, Mrs Graham, you are quite a casuist," said Dick.

Her husband grunted, and told Dick to pass the bottle.

" Bet you what you like," he said as he filled Wb glass and held it to the light, " that her name is Webster, for Jane said so when she wrote. Anyhow she is a very pretty girl." " A girt 1 " echoed Dick. " Certainly. Did you think she was an old woman 7 "

"My husband chooses to call her a girl," said Mrs Graham, " but she told me herself she was nearly 30. She is only a year or two younger than I am."

"She looks 10 years younger," returned John Graham, whereat his wife showed unmistakable symptoms of tears, and Dick hastened to introduce a diversion. The conversation drifted to other subjects, and Mrs Webster's name was not again mentioned.

Meanwhile, in the room above, Aline lay upon her bed. It was true that she had a headache, an ailment to which she was very subject, and she was glad to shelter herself behind the excuse of illness, and so obtain a short respite.

From what 7 That was the question. It must be remembered that never until the moment when Bhe saw him under the orange trees had Aline doubted that Dick was dead. It was true that she had not seen his dead body, but the evidence of hjs death had appeared so .conclusive to herself and others that she could hardly have felt more convinced of it had she closed his eyes. Then, too, had she not given authority for the monument to be erected to hie memory in Motuaka Church — could she not even now see the ornamental slab with its appropriate inscription in the centre of an otherwise bare wall. Was it possible that the man to whose memory it was inscribed was still alive. No, no. It was impossible. There must be some mistake. And the name, too, Richards I — it must be a mistake. She must have been deceived. It was some chance resemblance. After all, she had only seen him for a moment under the orange trees in the shifting shade. And it was 10 years or more since he had bid her good-bye on that December evening, or rather he had not bid her good-bye, but had left her in anger and never returned. In 10 years people change a great deal, she was conscious of a change in herself, outward as well as inward, no doubt it would be so with him. It was — it must be a mistake. Yet why that sudden flash of memory;— of recognition — so unexpected, bo extraordinary. She had looked to see a stranger, and she had beheld Dick 1 No, no ; she had not really seen him — it was a fancy, a dream, an hallucination — one of those extraordinary resemblances of which one reads in story-books and so seldom encounters in real life. Then she tried to picture him to herself, feature by feature ; bat she could not do it. It seemed to her that the could not remember him at all. No wonder then that she had been deceived by the sight of a stranger. Dick was in reality quite different; he was taller, thinner, less ruddy. Surely his hair and eyes were of a different tint 1

So she argued with herself, but in spite of all she was obliged to believe the evidence of her senses. Dick was alive, and in the same house with her. Granted. Then when and how had he escaped 7 Had be been blown out to sea and picked up by a passing vessel ? Why had he nob returned to claim his wife and property 7 How did it happen that he turned up here, and in the position of a rich squatter, instead of that of a penniless adventurer? No, no; the more she thought c£ it tl)e more impossible it all seemed. No, Jiichartls was not, could nob be Dick Campbell.

" I must see him again, and make sure one way or tha other," said Aline to herself. And then she pressed hor hands to bet throbbing temples and tried to think no more, for under the strain of continual brain action the pain in her head had increased every moment ; so she tried to lie for a time utterly passive ; but she could not. A very deraoa of memory seemed to possess her, and every detail of us? life at Motuaka returned to her with ,the incisive clearness of a photograph. Word by word, sosac by scene, like a panorama it -slowly revolved itself before her mental vision. How well she remembered it all — too well. Gladly, gladly, would she forget it. Her discontent, her pettish tempers, her constant fault finding. Oh, God 1 what a wretch she had beep, So wicked !so ungrateful ! No wonder that lie ran jiway and left her. Ah 1 that was it 1 She bad driven him from her. That would account for all. Why had she not thought of it before 7 Surely his sjjdden disappearance was not natural. It had not Btruck her so at the tjme — but now 7 Now it all became suddenly clear and distinct. She had made bis life so wretched with her discontent and ill-temper that be

had taken/advantage of an accident to escape from it.

How he must have hated her, since he had preferred death or exile to the bondage which held him.

Aline arose from her couch. Rest was impossible. Her head throbbed so terribly that now and again the physical Buffering over-powered all else ; but only for a moment, for the mental faculties seemed unusually keen and active, and they produced and reproduced images of her oast life: what he said to her, what she said to him ; and she could in no way escape from the vicious circle, and always her thoughts returned to the same point. " How he must have hated me 1 " That she had hated him, or at least that she had told him so, she never remembered.

Mrs Graham on her way to bed tapped at her door, and asked how her head wa&.

"It is very bad. Won't you come in 7 " Mrs Graham complied, and held her candle just in front of the aching eyes. "I am sorry your head is so bad. Can I get you anything 7 "

" I think not, thank you. If I could go to sleep I should bo better."

" Perhaps you will when the house is quiet. The gentlemen have gone outside to smoke. By the way, did you ever meet Mr Richards before 7 "

11 Why 7 Did he recognise me 7 " " He did not see you, and he thought you were an old woman ; but something in the name struck him as familiar."

" Webster is a common name."

" That's what I told him ; still it seemed to attiact his attention. I suppose it is your real name."

"Yes, it is nay real name — or — or — rather — " And she paused abruptly, for like a flash of lightning came the thought that if Dick Campbell were alive, her name was not, and never had been, Webster.

Mrs Graham looked at her suspiciously, her expression saying plainly, "You have deceived me."

Aline pressed her hands upon her head. " It aches so," she said piteously. Mary Graham was not naturally a hard woman, but her querulous temper and the demon of jealousy which was always gnawing at her heart made her often both hard and unjust. Her husband's evident admiration of her lady help, and his words that very evening, had stirred up her worst feelings. " I wish I could get her out of the house," she thought. And now all at once there seemed to be a chance.

" I don't believe yonr name is Webster," she said decidedly.

"Perhaps it is not," returned the other wearily, as if the question were not worth disputing.

" Perhaps," said Mrs Graham again, '• you have no right to that ring upon your finger."

Now, the ring was Tom's ring, and if it were true that Dick Campbell was alive, she had indeed no right to it. The colour rose slowly over her pale cheeks and dyed them a vivid crimson. " I— l do not know," she stammered. Mary Graham looked properly scandalised. 11 How dare you do it 7 " " Do what 7 " " How dare you come into my house on false pretences and contaminate my innocent children? I thought you were an honest woman, and now perhaps you are a burglar or something worse." Aline laughed hysterically. " Dear Mrs Graham, what an absurd idea. How can I be a burglar ? "

" I am sure I don't know, but when people go about under false names and wear rings that don't belong to them, one is apt to suspect them of all kinds of -things. I have heard of people getting into houses on false pretences on purpose to open the doors at night."

" But your doors are never locked,. If any burglar wished to enter he could* so without an accomplice inside. Ah I believe me, I am a most unhappy woman, but I shall not contaminate your children or admit robbers at midnight."

" You may perhaps do worse," " What do you mean 7 " Aline was sitting on the side of the bed, her great eyes, surrounded by dark circles formed by pain, were lifted to her interlocutor, and in Mary Graham's face she read the answer to her question.

" Have I not served you and the children to the best of my power," she said again, "and now, if you doubt my honour and honesty, Ist me go."

"How can you go. You know we are miles from the coach line."

" Let one of the men take me down in the station waggon, we could start in the morning before anyone else was up,'^_said Aline feverishly, seeing a way of escape opened out before her.

Mary Graham, having got her will so much more easily than she expected, began to waver.

" But you are too ill to travel." " No, my head aches, but it will be better in the morning. And indeed I would rather go." " Where shall you go to 7 " " I do not know. It does not much matter."

" Mr Graham will be angry."

" Don't tell him ; don't tell anyone," cried Aline eagerly. " Say that I was sent {or — that I had to go." " 'j.hey won't believe that.'.' " Then say — say anything you like, onjy let me go."

And now came the revulsion of feeling that so often follows gratified malice, " No sooner did Aline consent to go than Mrs Graham wanted her to remain, remembered how useful she had beeD, and wondered what she would do without her.

"Itis a great pity, 1 ' she said. "We will talk about it again in the morning." Aline pressed her forehead against the iron bar of the bedstead. The pain seemed to grow worse every moment, and her thoughts to grow more confused and indistinct. She was conscious only of one supreme desire — viz., that Mrs Graham would go away and takp thg candle out of her eyes. She moaned.

Mary Graham stood and looked at her doubtfully. She was sorry for her, and yet the had a sort of idea that it served her right— that the pain was a punishment for her wrong-doing. She wanted to aay something of the sort but did not quite know how to

word it, which w«3 perhaps as well under tha circumstances. Aline looked up. "I think I will undress," she said; "I can't talk any more just now." And acting on this hint Mrs Graham at last took her departure.

An hour later the gentlemen came in out of the garden and stood on the verandah exchanging a few last words. In- the clear sti'l air the sounds floated upwards to Alines open window with perfect distinctness.

" Good-nigtt, old fellow. Are you really too tired for a game of euchre 7 — you owe me my revenge, remember."

" I think you must excuse me to-night ; I was in the saddle before daylight this moming, and now I can hardly keep my eyes open."

" Then go to bed by all means. It's the old room, you know your way. Have another glass first 7 "

"No thank yon. I'm too hot already." "You're very abstemious. By the way, you won't leave us to-morrow, and I can have my revenge then."

"Very well," laughed the olher. "Goodnight."

Aline went to the window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could see nothing, but there was no mistaking the voice— it was the voice of Dick Campbell. It had changed even less than bis person, and she would have known it among a thousand—each tone pierced her like a knife. Still, to make assurance doubly sure, she reBolved to look him in the face once again. She therefore slipped on a dark dressing gown, opened her door a little bit, and stood back in the shadow.

Soon>he heard a footstep on the stairs and saw the light, thrown forward, of a candle, the bearer of which came slowly towards her. She saw his head raised, then his shoulders, and then the hand which carried the light. The head was bent slightly downward, and every feature was clearly illuminated, If she had doubted before she could doubt no longer. Under the orange trees she had caught a mere glimpse of the general features and expression, whereas now the whole stood out like a picture by an old master in 6trong chiaro oscuro, the head and clear-cut features standing out distinctly against tho dark background. He was no longer smiling and animated, and the strong direct light seemed farther to accentuate the lines which care and trouble had cut into his features— those tell-tale lines about the eyes and mouth which none who have lived and suffered can escape. He was not quite so much like the Dick that ehe had known, but there could be no mistaking his identity. E?ery line spoke to her in forcible language— a living reproach. " It is I who have made him 'softer like that," she said to herself.

He came slowly towards her.

For one mad moment she thought that she would meet and confront him, and throwing herself at his feet, beg him to forgive and forget, but ehe remembered that he had left her, and that she had married another man, and that thus a double barrier was for evermore raised up between them. Also she remembered, so strange and complex is our nature, how she had hated the life at Motuaka, how dull and wearisome and monotonous she had found it. If she were to try it again she might like it no better ; there was perhaps something in her nature which prevented her being contented with a simple life and simple pleasures ; she might weary of it all, and he would weary of her, and so the last state would be worse than the first,

So she drew back further into the shadow and he passed on. She saw the light disappear slowly down the passage, the sound of a closing door, and once more she laid herself down on her bed and tried to still the throbbing, pulsing pain in her head.

What a night that was 1 It seemed interminable.- She tossed from side to side in pain ; and as she tossed, visions of the past, of the present, and of the future crowded upon her, a very phantasmagoria. What was, what might have been. A Walpurgis night. Never in her life bad she ' passed through such an experience — a whole lifetime of misery seemed condensed into those few hours. Several times she thought that she must be going mad, and more than once she felt that if she had bad a strong dose of poison near she must have taken it, and so ended the pain in one way or another.

Sleep had forsaken her eyelids, and she could not rest in any position. A waking nightmare clutched her — Tom Webster, as she had seen him last, hideouely wounded and bleeding, with rage and hate on every distorted feature, stood by her side and "cursed her with his eye." "You never loved me, you lied to me ; it is you who have dragged my soul to hell," he said. And though she knew that it was false, knew, too, that the vision was nothing but her own disordered imagination, she could not drive it away or even close her eyes against it. " God help me, I am mad," she moaned.

It was worse than the fever she had had at the hospital, for of that she knew nothing. We can never remember what we suffer in the delirium of fever, the memory of wl.ich is mercifully obliterated when the crisis is over, but this experience was as vivid as it was acute. She not only thought of the past, she saw it, bit by bit it was all unrolled before her. Her hasty ill-con-sidered marriage with Tom Webster. Why had Bhe married him 7 that she could never tell. It was a fate from which she could nof. escape. The letter she received on her wedding day, telling of the light esteem in which her so-called lover bad held her; the honeymoon which ended so quickly in demands for money. The life of duns and difficulties and keeping up appearances, and, worse than all, the discovery of Tom's utter baseness — liar, tbief, drunkard, gambler. Imagination could not picture anything more utterly worthless, and she had borne it all and done her best ; or at least she could not say that, she had done what she could, but it had been all in vain, he had sunk 'down, down into fathomless depths, and her feeble hands could not hold him up. Not to her could be given the power of redeeming that soul from evil, she' conld die With him and for him, but not instead ot him. And wiih bis vileness her very nature was denied, for was ehe cot flesh of bis flesh, and bone of his bone. Oh hideous, fatal, terrible bond, from the memory of which death itself could not free her. No wonder she could not look Dick Campbell in the face. From him £be must

fly. It mattered not where to and at what ccst. It would be useless to ask him to forgive. If he had left her once, he would certainly not wish for her again now that her own deed had destroyed the link between them. He had left her ihat he might be free, and she, by her own act, had acknowledged the freedom.

What would the futnre bring ? She did not know, she dared not surmise. One thing alone seemed certain, .that she must leave Buallab, lest he should see and recognise her; leave him to the freedom which he had chosen.

"Oh if I could only sleep and forget it all."

And just as the day dawned she fell asleep. And dreamed the same dream which she had dreamed before in the two previous crises of her life.

Again she" was tossing on the pitiless ocean, shipwrecked and dying of thirst, and Dick held to her lips a cup of living water, and as she stooped to drink it To 21 dashed it from her grasp. On land, the monster held her in his clutches, Tom stood and laughed, while Dick deliberately took her place, and she struggled f ranctically not to save herself but so prevent his offering a useless sacrifice. And she woke, bathed in perspiration, trembling in every limb, to see the light of another day streaming through her closed blinds.

Such dreams were worse than the waking. The pain in her head was less violent, but it had left a dull weary aching which made every movement a trouble and every noise agony. Yet she rose and dressed and went down into the yard to see if she could find one of the men and arrange with him to drive her to meet ths coach at the nearest point. There was no difficulty in doing this, for the men were civil and obliging, and accustomed to receive orders from her; and so, though this particular one wondered why " the master did not take her himself," he decided that it was no business of his.

" And when would you be wanting to go, mam ? "

"As soon as you can get ready ; the sooner the better."

" Will 7 o'clock do ? I must get in the horses, and I'll be wanting a bit of tucker myself."

" I shall be ready. And Henry don't drive round to the front door. I'Jl come out here. I don't want the children to see me."

She was ashamed of the falso excuse, but he accepted it readily. " Bight you are. I understand. The kids would fret may be ; and indeed, mam, we'll all be Borry to lobo yer, if so be as ye're not ieturning, but perhaps itß only for a holiday like, an you'll be comiDg back later on."

" I think not," she said, strangely grateful for the kind words of the rough busbman, so precious is human sympathy in our hour of need, and so sweet is the balm of flattery when we are at outs with ourselves. " I think not, but it is kind of you to drive me. I won't keep you waiting."

She returned to the house to pack up her few belongings, Mrs Graham was in her room.

" Mrs Webster," she said awkwardly, " I have been thinking over what I said last night. I was too hasty. Indeed you must not leave us in this way."

But Aline had no quarrel with her employer, and scarcely remembered the hard words that she had spoken.

" Indeed I must go," she said, " but I shall be glad that we part friends. I am sure when you think about it you will acquit me of any wish to rob your house or contaminate your children." " Yes — yes, of course, I was annoyed when I spoke ; I did not mean it. You have been a great help to me. I hope you will stay with us a lor g time."

This was a new difficulty, for which Aline was quite unprepared.

Her face was white, and dark lines of pain were under her eyes. The sad pale countenance touched Mrs Graham.

" You will stay," she said again.

" Indeed, indeed I cannot," returned Aline, the kind tone affecting her far more than the previous bitter invectives. " Please let me go."

" B.ut what am 1 to do when you are gone. NoonecanmanageDuncanbutyou. And then there are the servants. Jane has been quite a different girl lately, and all the others get on sp well, and I am sure it is owing to your good management, indeed you must not leave nie."

•! You told me I could go ; and^t have just a3ked Henry to take me," said Aline, driven to a kind of desperation.

_ " Oh, that is "easily managed. We'll just countermand the horse?, and he will be very glad to escape the job. The men are not over«fond of the long drive. I'll send word at once." She moved to the door, thinking that she had conquered.

Aline caught her hand. " Oh, Mrs Graham," she cried, " have mercy on me. Let me go."

The wailing tone of entreaty startled, the elder woman from her complacent selfishness.

" You look ill," she said, drawing back a step. " Perhaps you are going to have an illness."

" Perhaps I am ; I have had a wretched night."

" Ob, if that is the case you had better go. It may be something catching." Aline smiled bitterly. ". I doa't think so," she said.

11 Ob, but you can't tell. Things come on so suddenly. And now I think of it, you seemed very feverish last night. Perhaps you are going to have another fever, and some of us might catch it." "Brain fever is not infectious." '• But you might have a different one this time."

" I might."

" Yes, yea. Well in that case it makes a difference. It would be awkward to have you laid up just now. There is no doctor within 50 miles, and perhaps the children might catch it ; and — and lam so nervous myeelf. I declare I feel ill already." " I do not think that there is any necessity to be so alarmed."

"Perhaps not; but the mischief is soon done. I will go and take a dose of eucalyptus or camphor. I really do feel very queer." ■'"I may go then." " Yes, yes ; you had better go. But I shall see you again," and she drew towards the

door, shrinking from any contact with the supposed invalid, who, left to herself, felt as if a hand of ice lay upon her heart, so terrible is it to feel utterly alone and cut off from all sympathy with our fellows.

Aline, however, did not allow herself to dwell upon this thought. She hastily packed a few necessaries into a Gladstone bag, and leaving the rest of her luggage to be sent after her, hastened to the stable yard, thinking that Bhe would expedite Henry's movements and get away before any further difficulties could be raised.

She rightly calculated that it would take Mrs Graham some time to seek restoratives to soothe her agitated nerves, and also to dress and order breakfast. It was not likely that she would trouble herself again about her lady help until that meal was over, and in the meantime Aline trusted to get away unobserved. Mrs Graham's fear of illness amounted almost to a mania, and nothing could have served Alines purpose so well as the scare which that lady had taken.

Aline found the stable yard deserted, but as she lingered Henry and another man brought in a pair of horses, and having given them a feed, went off to get their own breakfast, promising to return soon.

It was a lovely morning, fresh and clear, with a dry, delicious sparkle in the air that felt like champagne; the heai of summer and of noonday were yet a long way off. A faint, Epicy fragrance filled the air, and mingled with the sweetness of the orange flowers. Aloft in the unfathomed blue, delicate white clouds sailed slowly, a fleet of " golden galleons " ; while from a neighbouring wattle a pair of native birds wooed each other with sweet sounds, and in the distance a melodious bell-bird rang out its musical chime.

It was a perfect day — a day made for love and peace, and all pleasant things. Aline drank in its sweetness, and it soothed her unawares ; and out in the open, the gnawing pain at her heart felt less terrible, less hopelessly oppressive ; for there, in all that sweetness and beauty, it was not so much the contrast that struck her as the delicate undercurrent of sympathy which thrilled to the roots of her being, and made her glad even in the midst of her pain, with a strange impersonal gladness, because God had made the world so fair, and given it as a habitation to the creatures that He loved. " I too am His," she ° thought, " and whatever He doeth, it is well."

Even at that earlj hour the sun was hot. But there were two gigantic blue gums at the north end of the yard. To Aline they seemed like old friends with their grey-green leaves and plumy-white flowers, and under their shade she]found a lopped branch. There she sat and waited.

She bad not sat there long before a faint smell of tobacco mixed with the other scents and touched her olfactory nerves. She knew by the fineness of it that this was no black pipe charged with some strong, coarse mixture. A man was near — a gentleman — probably Mr Gfaham. She hoped— nay, she even prayed that he would pass her unseen. She heard a footstep crush the fallen leaves, and the crackling of more than one twig, as the firm tread pressed upon it. Nearer the steps came, and ever nearer. She sat very still, hoping that the owner of the feet, whoever he might be, would pass behind the trees and leave her undisturbed. For a moment she thought that he had done so, and then their direction changed, and they came straight towards her. One, two, three, and the man with the cigar stepped over the fallen trunk and stood by her side. It was not Mr Graham, of that she was sure. It must then be he whom she was so anxious to avoid. She sat with her head bent down. He might still pass her unnoticed. But no, he paused. He took the cigar from his mouth, and addressed her with grave politeness.

" Can you tell me what time it is ? my watch has stopped. And I would not be late for breakfast." " It is half -past 6." She raised her eyes to his. For one fraction of a second he looked at her doubtfully, then —

" Aline 1 " he said, and it seemed to him as if he bad expected it all the time, ever since Mrs Graham had spoken of her to him on the previous evening. He, too, had had a bad night, had slept little, and been disturbed by feverish dreams, and had started very early in the morning for a walk and a dip in the river, from which he was returning when he saw a woman sitting on a fallen tree, and he turned out of his path to speak to her, attracted by her sad, drooping attitude, and further urged by a subtle instinct of sympathy. That this sad woman should be the one woman in all the world for him did not seem to him strange, he had expected it. "Aline," he repeated. " Yes," she said in a strangled voice. " I -I — saw you yesterday."

She did not rise or offer her hand. There could be no conventional greeting between these two. Ho looked at the bag at her feet. " And now you are running away from me. Is that necessary ? "

" I think so."

«• Nay," he said gravely, " you do me an injustice. Mrs Graham has told me that your— that Tom Webster is dead. Is that so ? "

"And you think perhaps that I should make some claim upon you — advance some demand which you are not willing to grant." Her pale face flashed crimson as he said this, and she turned it slightly from him. He saw in the action nothing but aversion and dread. It stabbed him like a knife. " Nay, do not fear me, do not shrink from me. Be veiy sure that no word or act of mine shall betray the fact that we hav3 ever met before, still less make any claim on you which you would desire to repudiate. You are free absolutely, and entirely, so far as it is in my power to make you so. If you would rather apply for a divorce — "

" No, no," ehe breathed

"It is my own feeling. The publicity and disgrace would be' terrible to me. Still, if you desired it ",

" \ do not."

"That is well. We are at least agreed on one point. And for the rest, can you not forget that you have seen me 1 Forget that I did not perish in the Pacific waves, and that I do not deserve the cenotaph in Motuaka church. Stay here wi^h you? frjen&s'— there.

are worse people in the world than the Grahams — I think they will be kind to you. I shall leave here to-day, and I will promise you never to return. I seldom leave Waratah; for the future I shall leave it more seldom still. You then can remain here at peace — secure and safe from any molestation on my part. If we should meet at any future time, we meet as strangers."

Strangers 1 Ab, heaven 1 bow the cold, grave, kind, unimpassioned tones fell upon her heart and smote it into ice, her very limbs seemed paralysed. How he must hate her, this man who was so good and yet so hard. Strangers I Had they not always been strangers ; what need to emphasise tbe cruel fact ; and yet — surely they were less estranged now than they had been, though he did not seem to see it. 11 Can you not trust me ? " Ah, yes, she could trust him with her life, but that was not what he meant.

" Can you not trust me. I cannot bear to drive you from your horne — unless, indeed, you will allow me to provide you with another." She looked up quickly. He saw and again misunderstood the action. " I mean that you are entitled by law, you know, to a share in all that I have."

" No, no," she cried passionately, " spare me at least that degradation."

He winced visibly.

"As you will. Perhaps ifc was too much to ask ; but remember it is yours absolutely ; yours whenever you choose to take it, and that without any conditions."

" No, no, I can work. I would rather work. I cannot take any more of your money." " And you will remain here 1 " "I — I do not know. Mrs Graham wishes me to leave."

" I think not. That can easily be arranged if you are willing to remain. Will you do so?"

" If you wish it."

"I do wish it, very much." He lifted her passive hand, looked at it for a moment, hesitated, touched it with his lips, and was gone.

(To be continued.)