A LIFE Sentence

Southern Cross, Volume 3, Issue 3, 20 April 1895, Page 13

A LIFE Sentence

[COPYRIGHT.]

By ADELINE SEEGEANT, Author of “Jacobi's ■ Wife,’’ Under ■ <■-. False Fretences” ' Jtoys.Be'pentdnce,” DeveriVs Diamond,”

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.

CHAPTERS I. TO lll.—Andrew, Westwood, a poacher, is accused of causing the death of old Squire Vane, whom it was stated he had shot in the wood; a piece of what was said to he Westwood’s torn coit being clutched in the dead man’s hand. . Westwood is found guilty, and sentenced to death, notwithstandding that he strongly protests his innocence. At Reechfield Hall, where resides General Richard Vane', the successor of the dead Squire, Hubert Lepel, a young cousin, has been summoned by Miss Leo ; Vane ,to break the news he has telegraphed to, her to the General. He does so, arid tells him that on tlie eve of the execution of Westwood he had been reprieved. The news is too great for the General and he is seized by an apoplectic fit. CHAPTERS IV & V.—Hubert Lepel and his sister Cojstance are in conversation, and it transpires that Hubert himself sho.t the Squire in order to save his sister from the shame of an unworthy intrigue with the murdered man. Miss Vane, in a conversation ■with Hubert,' speaks of his sister as an adventuress with matrimonial designs upon the General, in whose family she officiates as governess to little Enid Vane. Miss Vane is horrified at ssing Enid talking to a, daughter of the accused man Westwood, the poacher. CHAPTERS VI. & VII —Hubert and Miss Vane decide that the child, Andrew Westwood’s daughter, must not stay there, and after consultation with the Vicar, it is agreed to send the child to a home at .'W’instead, where she will be seen to. The ’Vicar consents to take the child into the Vicarage for the present.

CHAPTER VIII. & IX.—Cynthia West■wood, or as her name is, changed, Jane, Wood, as she is called, is taken charge ,of by the HJqrne for Distitute Girls. After a year or two her story accidentally comes out, and she flees the .place, saying she will earn her own lining by teaching.

CHAPTER X. Eio-ht. years had passed away since the tragedy that brought the little ■village of Beeclifield into luckless notoriety. During those eight years what changes had taken place ! Even at quiet rustic Beechfield many things had come to pass. Old Mr Rumbold had been gathered to his fathers, and Mrs Rumbold had gone to live with friends in London. The new rector was young, energetic, good-looking, and unmarried, : : At the Hall, there were changes too. Enid Vane had grown from a delicate child into a lovely girl of seventeen. The house was no longer chill and desolate—brightness seemed to have come back to it with her growth—a brightness which even the General, ; saddened.,as he had been by his brother’s death, could not resist. He had taken his own way of contributing to the cheerfulness of the Hall. Six months after Mrs Sydney Vane’s death he had married Constance L'epel as Miss Vane had predicted that he would, and a little boy of five years old was now running about the Hall gardens and calling the Greueral * father.’ ; . The old man positively adored this little lad, and believed him*; to be perfection. He "whs fond, of Enid and his wife, but he;doted: on the child. fle seemed,indeed to love him more than did ’ ttie tn,other of the boy. Constancy Vane was not perhaps of a very ■ loving , disposition, but it was remarkable that she apparently disliked little Dickr She never petted or fondled the child—sometimes she rebuked him very angrily. And yet he was docile, sweet-tempered and quick-witted, though, not particularly handsome ; but Constance had never liked children, and she made her own son no exception, to the rule. Eio’ht years had changed Constance in outward appearance. She was still pale, slender, graceful languid in a manner, slow of speech, and given to the reading of French But thera were dark shades beneath

•her"veTve%; brown eyes; as if sfie™ Suffered from - ill-health;.; ■She. (bad! tAken'to lying* on a. sofa a great deali; j she did not visit much* and she; seldoin j allowed festivity at the Hall.! ; She, remained in her boudoir for, the! grbateri part' of the daiy, with the rose-; cbldnre'd !blinds;/down and" the doors careful ly closed ahd 'curtains to exclude: all-sounds-of-the* Outer world ; and while she was upstairs the General and his niece Eiiid'and the; boy ; had: ; the house to themselves, and enjoyed • their liberty extremely. - : ' I Irv the afternoon Mrs Vane would: be found in the drawing-room; ready for visitors; but she ri generally re- . turtihd to her boudoir for a'rest-before andHsteadily.: set her face against late hours iinthe.evening. Nobody knew what was the matter with her ; some people spoke vaguely of her ‘ nerves,’ of the extreme delicacy and sensitiveness of her organ-, . some said-Beech did not suit! her, and others whispered that she had never been ‘ quite right ’ since her baby was born. At any rate she was semi-invalid; and she did not seem to know what was the: matter with her any more than other people. She sat in her luxurious Idungingchair, or lay on the’ softest of sofas, day after day without complaint* always pale, silent, graceful ari habitual smile, sweet And' weary, upon her pinched lips, hut no smile in her eyes, where a fire sometimes glowed which Seemed to be burning her very life away. J ’ One' 'balmy 1 September afternoon she had established herself, rather earlier than usual in .the diaivingroom. A bright little fire -burned in , the polished steel grace—for - Constance was always , chilly —hilt the windows were open; a faint breeze from the terrace swept into the room and moved the lace curtains gently to and fro. The blinds were half drawn down, so that the room was not veiy light; the shadowed perfumed atmosphere was: grateful after the brightness of the autumn afternoon. Constance Vane sat in a low armchair near the fire. She had a small table beside her, on which stood her dainty work-basket* half full ; .of coloured silks, her. embroidery patterns, a novel, a vinaigrette, and a French fan; She had cushions at her back, a footstool for her feet, a soft white shawl on her shoulders. It was very plain that she liked to make herself comfortable. She wore a gown of pale blue silk embroidered in silver—-a most artistic garment, which suited her to perfection, and which was as soft and luxurious as the rest of her surroundings. The white cat which lay curled up on the rug at her feet could not have looked more at her ease.

In a chair opposite to her sat a man of rather more than thirty, who looked thirty five or even forty when a little light from the curtained windows fell upon his dark face and showed the grey threads that, were beginning to appear in his moustache.

If he had been a woman he would have sat with.his back to the window as Constance was doing now. But Hubert Lepel was not at all the man to think about hiss appearance, or to regret the fact, if he did think, about it. that he looked more than his age' He had found it'rather an advantage to him during the last few years. Constance had .not seen him for some time, and she commentedsilently and acutely on the change of his apearance. He had a subtle face, she though —keen, stern Sardonic deeply furrowed for a man of his years, too : haggard to be exactly handsome; but Certainly very interesting, especially to the mind of a; woman who had seen little of the world. This was as it should be. She smiled to herself : she was a born plotter; and she had a scheme for Hubert’s benefit now. :It was only fair that he should partake of that good forturie that had fallen to her lot. ■ . ;

" ‘lt was kind of .you ■ to come,’' she was saying, languidly, 1 for I know that you did not care for Beechfield.’ 1 ‘No; ’ he said ; ‘I perfer Loudon on the whole.’ : :

—lYis'qinfe extraordinary tO vthinkvhowr ,litt).e: ,y 9.11 hajVfi,,been > in;, England; .for.the:, ■few; i years; : lih,aye ,ipo.t ;Been;.you, ho.wrjlpngs,{s^bert;?: , . : ,7T, i ; ;,s v.’m .- , . ;i ijVThriee yearjSj I > ; .. j . : ‘Andthen ;o,nly for,an ; (bpuror two in- London, .a#ju%fepvaj|s■pf-gfc^Qoptha! I hope that, yon .are going l . to .be j a little more sociablepow, and run down to see us occasionally/;, , ;, , ;

- The brother, and sister looked- at; each ..other vsteadily for: a moment without speaking. Each knew enough what was in the other’a mind. . . , ‘ Yps,/.said Hubert,, at last, in . a peculiarly light and . careless voice ; ‘;I think ,I; shall.’;, He,: crossed,! h.is legs and settled himself into an easier position:in his chair.: ‘ Beechfield is not a bad place to stay for a few days —or even a few; weeks—now and then. : And you seem very comfortable, Constance.’ ~ ...

‘ Yes,’ she said, ‘ I am comfortable. The G eneral; is very kind.’: And .you have a fine boy—a ; nice little chap,’; said .Hubert, still .lightly. ‘Yes; he is a healthy child,,’ she ansvvered, in the mechanical, way in which she had spoken before. . Hubert gave her a keen glance. He looked at the long but not ungraceful lines of her slendnr figure, ..at, the blue viens which showed themselves in the dead white of her hands, at the .shade beneath her eyes, and knitted his brows a trifle impatiently. Then .he spoke m lower tones, which betrayed some suppressed emotion. ‘You have : gained all that you wanted,’ he said, ‘ you ought to be satisfied.’ .

She stirred ,a little in hef chair, and allowed a faint smile to appear upon her lips. , ■ , ...‘ And .you,’,, .she said, ‘ are a very successful, man. How many nights did your last play run? You are popular; you have made money ; you ought to be satisfied too.’

Eaph knew that the other was not satisfied at all; each knew the cause of that silent, dissatisfaction with what life had to give. ‘I am .satisfied,’ said the man grimly. It was the tone that said, ‘ I will be satisfied in spite of fate ! In spite of my own actions, ray own sin,, my own remorse, I will be satisfied !’

‘ You have changed your note,’ said Constance,: regarding him curiously. ‘ And not too soon,’ he answered, .decisively. ‘ There is , nothing so useless as sorrowing over the past and regretting, wha,t cannot be undone.; Let me recommend my philosophy of life to you. Make the best of what remains ; we cannot bring back what we have, cast away.’; There was a new hardness in his tone—not of recklessness, but of unflinching determination. He rose and stood on the hearthrug, with his hands behind him as he spoke. ‘ I have taken a new departure. I have wasted many hours of the past. lam resolved .to waste not one hour in future. Though much is taken, much remains,’ as thq poet,says ; ,and you and I, Constance, have, all to look for in the future, and nothing in the past.’ ‘ That is true,’ she said, in a very lovy tone. ‘Nothing, in the past ! ’ Then she ,sat up, as if stirred .to movement by his attitude, and, looked at him again. ‘What has caused this change of mind, Hubert ? Have you, fallen, in love ?’ lie uttered a short laugh, ‘ Not I— I don’t know the sensation.’ ,

- ‘ You knew it . a few years ago, when I thought you would ; marry pretty Mary .Marsden ‘She married a Jew money-lender,’ said Hubert,'drily. ‘I saw her the: other day:—she weight fourteen stone I should think.!’ : ‘ Poor little Mary ! It is not love then!’ 1 ‘ No, it is not.’ He was silent a minute or two, pulling his moustache with a quick nervous movement which betrayed some agita- ■ tion of mind. Then he said quickly, ‘ I had'better tell you something: and get it dverj Though I have no wish to rake up the memory of unpleasant

that,^7 dead/ i,,/ ‘ 35e%^;!..A}; : ?’,‘‘, + Ye 5..,.. An c where;t he , pfps, ,.e,ngagf)d*.'He/_ttie3. after , w-> r liptei:B* nucouscioushesss ; Cqnsfaiice.. ‘ for a‘ jfew moiqents,ana theTi said softly:—p ‘ I .think Jbatl now understand.’ 1,1 : ~ t.lt. wijl be better that we d6 i? i|ot speak of thei, matter agamV said. Hd- . bert,. in;the masterful way which‘.she was beginnibg to recognise as one of his characteristics., '‘lt is all' oVer and done with ; nothing wei’say or dq t - cau, make • any., difference, _‘ t ]ii&' in ah ’ is gone, gnd we, are her®- We can begin a new life, if wo chpb.se.’ , ' ;His sister’ watched’ hiid'with ’ ’eyes ; which expressed a greater gldorn than ; he; was to understand , BBr , hands began to tremble 'as he sai'd the last tew words. , ./You. can —you can !’ she cried, . alreo with .vehemence. . But for .me —there is no. new life for’ me : and, covering her face with her hands, ;she began to weep, npt violently, ' but so that he saw the tears oozing from between her .slender- fingers. . Hubert stood aghast. Was this trembling woman the. cold 'imperturbable sister whom he had known of old He.had'seldom seen Cdristahce shed tears, even in her youthful days. Was it the consciousness of her past guilt,that; had changed her thus ? > He reflected that,' according to all tradition, a woman’s nature was more sensitive and delicate than that of a man. , Constance was weighed dbwir perhaps hy that Sense of remorse which; he had , well nigh forgotten. He had, as he had ‘ said, reSolve'd to put the past behind hini arid to lead a new, life. -V

She, a woman, with all a woman’s weakness, found it a difficult task to forgive herself the misery had caused ; and he, the only person who could understand and sympathise with her, who might have strengthened her in her struggle against evil —for such he considered must be the cause of her distress—he had neglected her, and, been ; perhaps a source' of pain instead of encoui He should have remembered that her guilt was surely , not greater than his own. . Softened by these thoughts; he bent down to place his hand on her shoulder and to kiss her forehead. ‘ My poor Connie,’ he said, using the old pet name as he had used it for many weary years, ‘ you must' not grieve now ! Forget the past—we can but leave it to heaven, There is nothing—absolutely nothing now that we can do!’ ‘ No,’ she said, letting, her hatids fall upon her lap and wearily submitting to his kiss— -‘ nothing for you —nothing at all for you —now.’ t , LT There was a deep meaning in her words to which he had not the slightest clue,.

CHAPTER XT. Hubert Lepel bad accepted ; his sister’s invitation to Seechfield Hall for two nights only; but, as he had given her to understand, he was quite willing to come again, supposing of course that she made his visit agreeable to him. So far—an hour and a half after his first arrival—it had not been very agreeable. He had been obliged to allude to a matter which was 1 highly Unpleasant to him, and he had had tostand by while his sister'burst into quite unnecessary and incomprehensible tears. He was not so soft-hearted a man as he had been, eight years; agO, ; and he told himself impatiently'that he could not stand much in ore of this kind of thing. ' ■; ’ '' For the last three years he ' had remained, as' Constance ; said,' almost always out of England. When his search for Jane Wood proved a failure he had taken' a strong dislike 'for a time to ' London 'life arid London ways. He had been making money by his literary wotk, i and as well able to afford himself a little , recreation: He went. to Egypt, therefore, and to India, took a look at China, and 1 Japan,>ahd came home by . way of South America.' . ;

tie did not' care, to travel; in Beaten tracks; and during his' He wrote a bOokor two which were fairly successful and a play which made a great sensation. had come back to London now, and Was at work on another play, on which great-hopes founded. If it were as successful as the first, there was , every ; likelihood of bis becoming a rich mao. He had got his head fairly above water,, and meant to keep it there ; he conceived that he had brooded too long over, the past. He had seen little Dick Tane when he first arrived, and he' had spent nearly two hours with Constance , but he had not yet encountered the General or General’s niece and adopted daughter, Enid Vane. The two had gone out riding, and did not return until after five o’clock. ' ‘ Just in time for tea I said the General in a tone of profound Satisfaction. ‘I thought that' we were later. And how do you find yourself, Hubert,, my dear boy P Why, I declare I shouldn’t have known you ! Should.you, Enid ?Heis as brbwn as a Hindoo.’ . 0 , ‘ Would you have knowu' me r said Hubert, with a smile at the girl who followed her uncle into the room and now gave Bin l ., her hand by way of greeting. , . The smile was forced in order to conceal a momentary twitch of his features, which he, could not quite control at the first sight of Sydney Vane’s daughter ; hut it looked natural enough. . The girl raised her eyes to.his 'face with a shy sweet smile. ‘ I am afraid that I don’t remember *vex*y well,’ she said j and Hnbert thought that he bad never seen anything much prettier than her smile. She was. seventeen,, and looked so fair, so delicate, in her almost childish loveliness of outline and expression that Constance’s white skin ’ became haggard and hard in comparison. Her slight figure was displayed to full advantage By a Well-made ridinghabit, and under her correct little high hat her golden hair shone like sunshine. ■ There was a soft colour in her cheeks, a freshness on her smiling lips, that made the Observer long to kiss them, as|if they belonged to some simple child. Her manner too, was almost that of a child—frank,’ naive, direct, and unembarrassed ; but in her eyes there, lurked a shadow which contradicted the innocent simplicity of her expressive countenance. It was not a shadow of evil, but of sadness, of a subdued melancholy—the sadness of a girl Whose soul had been shadowed in early life by some undeserved calamity. It was a look that redeemed her face from the charge of inanimateness that might otherwise have been brought against it, and gave it that faintly sombre touch which w’as especially fascinating to a man like tiubert Lepcl. He continued to talk to the General who had questions to ask him concerning his travels and his friends ; but his eyes followed the movements of the girl as she stepped quietly about the room, pouring out tea for one carrying cake and biscuits for another. Twice he sprang up .to assist her, but was met with a smile and a shake of the head from her, arid the assurance from her uncle that Enid liked waiting on people—he need not try to take her vocation from her. He had to sit dowui again, and thought, half against his will, of that other Enid —.Tennyson’s Enid, in her faded gpw r n —and of Prince Geraint’s desire to kiss the dainty thumb ‘ that crossed the trencher as she set it down.’ He at least was no Geraint he said to himself, to win this gentle maiden’s heart. But he watched her nevertheless, with a growing admiration which was not a little danger-

ous. With a faint cynical smile Constance noted the direction of his eyes. As soon as her husband and his niece entered the room she had lapsed into the graceful indolent silence which seemed habitual to. her. . Enid brought her a cup of tea, and

mihistered to ;! her 5 Watitk with 'assiduity and ; gentleness 1 of'matther, though as'' Hubert' though t';‘ 1 Witß lib great show of affectibh'; and Constance accepted the' girl’s attentions 1 -with perfect equanimity and a caressing word or two of thanks. ■‘ >' And 1 yet Hubert fancied—he ''knew"tibt rwhy—that there w r ias no look of lovb : in Connie’s drooping eybs: ! ; n “Please may I come in ’ said Master' Dick’s small : - treble at' the door. ■ ; ' 1 ■ ■ " ■ ■' He Was a fair ■ blue 1 eyed ‘little fellow but not much like either 1 'his father'or : his mother', thought Hubert, as the child stood in the 1 doorway and looked rather 1 doubtfully ‘into the room,' •’ ■■ Constance’s brow contracted for a moment. • ' : : " , Why are you having yoUr nursery tea P she said. ‘We da. not want you here unless we send for you; ' 1 ■■ ‘ 1 want to see’ D ude Hubert,’ persisted the boy,’stolidly.' ’ ' 1 Hubert held out his hand to him with a smile that 1 children, found winning. , • . ‘ Come in, little man,’ he' said. '‘ I want to see you too/ : : ' Dick marched in at once, still, However keeping an eye fixed upon'' his mother. There was ' something almost like fear in the look ; and it was noticable that neither the General nor Enid spoke to invite him into the.room. r 1 :

‘ Yoii may come : in,’; Constance said at last, very : coldly—almost as one might speak to. a grown person whom one had strong reasons to dislike— ‘ but you cannot stay more than five minutes. You are hot wanted here.’ 1: : : 1

‘Oh, come, T think we 1 all wiint him !’ said Hubert, good-humouredly. ‘ I wish to make my nephew’s acquaintance, at any rate. I have something for- him in my portmanteau up stairs.’ ■ Constance made a ■ sudden, and, as it seemed, involuntary gesture, and knocked down a vase of flowers on the table at her right hand. There was some confusion in consequence, for the flowers had to be gathered up and the fragments of the broken vase collected, so that Hubert had little opportunity of talking to his nephew. And, as soon as the ‘fuss,’ as he mentally called it, was over, Mrs Vane said, in her coldest, slowest voice--- >

‘ Now, Dick, yon may go to the' nursery. Say goOd-night.’ ‘ Good-night ?’ questioned Hubert. ‘Why, be does not go to bed at this hour in the afternoon, does he ?’ ‘ He goes at half-past six or seven,’ I’eplied Constance. ‘Pray do not interfere with nursery regulations, my dear Hubert.’ 1 i

‘I shall see more of him to-mor-row, I suppose,’ said Hubert, smiling at the child’s wistful face as he went from one to another to say goodnight. Little Dick’s eyes lit up at once, but the light in them died Out when, on tiptoe, as if . afraid of disturbing her, he approached his mother/ Hubert Jthought that there was a touch Of something odd in the manner of everyone present, and was glad to see that Enid’s kisses and whispered words of endearnenl brought a flush Of pleasure t‘o‘ 'the " child’s delicate cheeks before he turned away. The General then tOok possession of the visitor and marched him off to look at the stables. The Old man had recovered all his old cheerihess and heartiness of manner; :there was a little more feebleness in his gait than there used to be, and he walked with a stick ; but Hubert was pleased to, see that his eyes were bright, and to find him loquaciously inclined. The shock of Sydney’s death had not seriously affected him, and Hubert was conscious of a thrill of relief at the sight of his evident health and happiness. Considering that Mr Lepel believed himself to have closed his heart against the past,, he was singularly open to attacks of painful; memory. He was annoyed by his pwn readiness to be hurt, and almost wished that he had not come to Beechfield.

He s&w neither of; the ladies again• until dinner, time, when: he thought.' .that Enid, looked . even lovelier, in her; simple -white frock than in her .ridinghabit. 11 •.; I; -.-- V ', ■;

He observed her a good deal at dinner, 1 and made up - .his, mind: that she waS the - verymodel ■ of-an! ideal hero-ine-^sweetl gentle,;! pure-minded, in* telligent—rail • that v <jafresh young English girl: should be. ;- i The type did not attract him greatly ; but. ,it - was j ust as, well do study so. perfect a specimeu-nwhen he -had one oat ;:hand ;;, hei wanted .to-in-; troduce a; girl of this , sort; info -his next .'novel, and "he. preferred poifrai-; ture itoi invention;: He .wonl.d,;keep the novel in mindwhen hedalked to her it; would perhaps:prevent any dwelling, on- unpleasant subjects—: for, oh,; how like the girl’s eyes were to those of: her, dead father!

I .; So he sat by the piano after dinner •while Enid played dreamy • melodies that soothed - the General into slumber, and then he- persuaded her to walk.'with‘him in: [the moonlight on the terrace, and talked to; her of his strange; adventures in- foreign 1 , landsj until the child-thought that she bad never 'heard anything half so wonderful.before. -And, as they passed and .repassed ).the .windows,. - they were watched; by 1 Constance Vane, with eyes that gleamed beneath her heavy eyelids with : the narrow, intentness> of the;: emerald orbs, belonging to her favourite white cat. , She had never looked more as if she were silently following some mal-evolent-design ;thau when she watched the couple .on the terrace on that moonlit night. : ; Enid very; quickly, made friends with Mr Lepel- 7—r so quickly indeed that she was moved -to confide,some of her. most private opinions to him before he had been much more;than twenty-four hours at Beechfield Hall. It ■ was anent; little Dick , and;. , his mother that the first confidence took, place. : : - The whole party, had been having tea under the great, beech-tree on the lawn, and after a time Enid and Hubert were left alone b} the others. They chattered gaily together, he answering her eager questions about London and , Paris and , .Berlin, she catechising him with an eagerness that amused .and - interested him. Presently they, saw. Dick running .towards them across the lawn; A white figure at one of the windows on the terrace* a call to the boy, end Dick’s wild career.was arrested. ! He stood still for a moment, then turned slowly towards the house, breaking into a childish wail of grief as he did so.

Hubert stopped short in the sentence that he was addressing to his young cousin, and looked after the boy. 'I ; ! ‘ What is the matter with the poop little chap ?’ he asked. Enid’s eyes were fixed anxiously upon the window where the white figure had appeared. ‘ Constance, called him,’ she said in: a very small voice. : . ‘ And why should the fact of his mother’s calling him' :make' :him cry ?’ -- ' - : ■ • 4 Constance thinks it best to be strict,’ said Enid, still with unnatural firmness of manner.. ‘He is running; away from his nurse now, I know ; and I suppose he will be sent to bed directly after tea for doing so—as he was yesterdayA • ‘ Was he ? Poor little beggar ! Was that the reason why he looked ■so miserable ;rand you Were all so solemn ? What had he done ?’

‘ He came into the drawing-room without permission. He was let off, very easily because yon were there, but I have known his mother punish him severely for doing so.’ ‘ Bat, : gobd heavens,’ said Hubert, rising from his seat end leaning against the trunk of the beech tree, while he looked down at Enid with an expression of utter perplexity, ‘why on earth should ; the child have so little ' freedom, iand: why should Constance be so hard bn him p : She must be altered ! She was never fond of children, but she was too indolant to be severe. Was not that

; ; - ; i ;■.! r / ;i M ; your experience of - her when yon. were a child f’~ — ‘ Yes.’ aaid Enid, pat tpp hesitatingly tolgive’ Huber| assurance that he wished for — f yes, she f did. It, is |(i^rs|hS^i^b S; her ow'nT

sha, loyes her,own ,child better than, she loved other cliildren -4-bdtter even > thanv y OU K’-.Vsald Hubert, with the soft intonation that turned'the words into. a!cbmpliment. * It is natural in a mother.’ ‘ o,ne,. WQuld think .so,’, said, the girl. Then, as‘if U impulse,' she spoke buH,iedlyv >ith. her beautiful. Qh, .cousin Hubiert i ’—-it J was ; that :she 'had addressed hiim ever since her babyhood— 4 do not think that I ain unkind to'Constance—l do not mean. it, unkindlyr—but it . does, seem sow etimes as if/she really ‘hated her little boy ! Poor little-I)ick has never known what it is to have a mother’s love. I am, sorry for him. I know what it ,is .'to. 'be motherless.’ Hubert,; averted, ■; his face and, gazed into- the 1 distance/ hui it' have--. lived many years without either father or mother, said the girl,' in,;a/tone the simple pathos' : of which seemed to pietcd her hearer’s heart, ‘ but at any rate I remember what their love.’ .. V

-She wondered why Hubert stood motionless and 1 irresponsive' it wks hot like him to be so, silent when an appeal was maote . -to, his sympathy. She coloured rosy the instinctive fear, that she had .gone toofar, had said; something of; which, did not approve, and she tried, in her iiaive unconsciousness , of'' ill, to 1 put the matter ‘ '* i ‘ But I have been very .happy,’ shesaid, earnestly. ‘ Constance: has always been kind, and deafmamma herself could hot have done more for me. It is, only, that ,She seems cold and severe with Dick—- peatcousin Hubert, X hope you are not angry with me for: saying;.: what. I have said about yonr sister ?’ He was obliged to look at her when she addressed him' thus directly.. She was surprised by ,the expression of: pain—bitter, humiliating pain..— upon his: face. Was it sympathy for her loss, she iworidered, or grief .for little Hick ? s position,-or distress-at her accusation* of Constance , that caused his face to wear that .look of positive anguish ? She could;, not tell. .*: • j; ; v , ‘ Angry f he said 1 stretching out his hand and laying it tenderly, on her own, while the pain in his. eyest softened into a melancholy as iriscrutable as the pain.* ' ‘ Could I' ever be angry with you, Enid ? Poor : little* lonely motherless child'!' Heaven knows, if I could protect you from sorrow *or pain henceforward, I Would *do so: at the cost of my lifei’ ■' *: . v He, withdrew his‘hand and walked away somewhat abruptly, without once looking round. Enid remained where, he, bad ;],efther,. pale with emotion, oyerpbWered by g (feeTingthat was neither jpy hor fear, but which partook of both. ' (To be continued.)*