A WIFE’S PERIL.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XVI, Issue X, 7 March 1896, Page 276

A WIFE’S PERIL.

BY

MRS M. E. HOLMES.

Aathor of • A Womiii Lot*.* ‘ Hoe Fatal Sin,’ • The Tragedy of Re-lmount,' Ktc., Bic.

CHAPTER IX.

Is there any place more beautiful than our dear country in the summer time—any place where the trees are more abundant and beautifully tinted—where the flowers smell sweeter, and the birds sing with more joyous melody ? There may be; and yet it is hard to imagine it. The silver streams flow so merrily, the passing wind dips the bending boughs of the willows into it with such a pleasant sound ; the forget me-nots stud the banks, the great water lilies spread their cool green leaves upon the breast ot the river, and their ivorv and gold cups stud it.

All the world looked bright; the sunshine seemed to have found its way into the hearts of men, women and children, as well as into that of beautiful nature. The labourers, as they took their mid-day meal under the shade of a hay-rick they were building, laughed softly, scarcely know.ng why, unless from sheer happiness, Hope Carthew stood at the great gate of the hall, looking up the road with sad, pain-laden eyes, watching for the po«tma". Would he bring a letter ? The mail from Australia was in, she knew, and almost her lite, at all events her happiness, detrended upon whether there *as a letter for her or not.

She had had but one since Gerald had left England. But ot»e —i-he could not understand it. That had been as fond and foolish as love letters usually are—full of hopes for the future and remembrances of the past ; then mail after mail had come in, and rhe had looked tor a letter in vain.

She did not doubt him at tiret; in her heart she b a med the postal authorities ; but now she began to fear that he was ill, perlntpt* dead. Never for a moment did she believe him false.

Soon in the far distance she saw the postman coming, and her heart began to throb. She made a step forward, then checked herself, and tried to banish the anxious look from her face. He came nearer and nearer.

• Any letters, Barnet ’ Her voice was a little husky as she asked the question. • No. miss.' the man said, touching his hat and passing on. Her eyes grew sadder than ever, the colour faded from her face ; she caught at the gate to support herself. • He ia dead !’ she said, under her breath. • I shall ne»er see him again ! Oh, what shall Ido—what shall 1 do?’ She leaned her head for a moment against the gate, then, lifting it and letting her hinds drop at her side, she walked slowly back to the hall. Mrs Carthew was watching for her ; she glanced quickly at her face, saw that she had no letter in her hands, and drew her own conclusions.

• You are disappointed again, Hope,’ she said.

4 Yes,’ the girl answered ; ‘ I believe he is dead.' ‘ Non-em»e ! we should have heard. Mure likely he is amusing himself so well that he finds no time to write.'

‘ Mother, don’t say t hat !’ the girl pleaded softly. * I know that my love for Gerald was a disappointment to you, that there was another whose wife you would rather I had been; but think, dear, he is all the world to me—more tt an all the world—and do not say such cruel things. He is ill—perhaps—perhaps,’ her voice shaking, •he is dead ; but he is not—l am certain he ie not false.*

She left the room she spoke, and went slowly up«taii*.. For a few minutes she stood looking from her window ; then liking her ha», want down th* broad stairCi*e. and out of the hou«e

Mo-t people with sensitive nerves like bast io bear their sorrows alone; it is only those of a coarse nature who can find comfort in discussing their heart-trou be*. There was no one to sympathise with Hope. Theie are few men and women who remember in their graver years what love was to them in their youth ; certainly Mi an I Mrs Carthew did not. They did not acknowledge, either, that there was any engagement between Hope and G< raid, and perhaps would have considered that no sympathy was due. Slowly Hope tn ide her way toward the woods—the der p, dark woods, through the trees of which the blazing sun scarcely found his way. It wa* cool there, and dark and melancholy ; the whole place was in tune

with MM row ; the song birds had flown away to the light and brightness. Only the monotonous, persistent note of the cuckoo broke the stillness, and the occasional fall of a crisp, dead loaf. Hope sat down upon a mosey heap, which either an industrious mole or thousands of industrious ante had thrown up, and began to think.

It is weary work thinking sad thoughts, wondering and wondering why those whom we lure neglect us, and having such firm faith in them that we can on'y say, * They are ill or dead.' Small comfort in that, but better dead than false.

The idea that tieraid might have forgotten her never once came to Hope ; his memory was as fresh in her remembrance

as ever—why not here in bis ? They loved each other ; why should ho forgot ? How long she sat thinking she scarcely knew ; a footfall diaturbed her ; she looked up. Ralph Sefton stood beside her. ‘Good morning. Miss Carthew,' Ralph Sefton said, stooping and holding out his hand. * This ia a melancholy p ace for you to come to alone ; and you look melancholy. Are you not well?* ‘ Quite well,’ she answered, rising, and speaking coldly. * I like the woods ; Ido not find them melancholy. And I like to be alone.'

‘You like your own eocie'y,’ he said, showing no intention ot taking her broad bint, and leaving her. * You aie wise, but you must not be unkind. Miss Carthew,

there are many others who value it too.’ * Yea,* she said, indifferently.

* You are l)ke a man I heard of once, who was more in the habit of talking to himself than to others,* ho went on. ‘Some one asked him one day why he did it. “ I like to talk to a sensible man, and I like to hear a sensible man talk,” he answered.'

‘And you think I resemble him?' Hope asked, a little absently. 'Am I meant to feel complimented ? I hardly know. Did psop'e give him hie wish and leave him in peace to lalk to and listen to himself? If eo, I think he was torluuate, and 1 envy him.’

A hot flush swept Ralph’s face. * You mean that you wish me to go ?' he said. * But Ido not like to leave you ; you do not look well, and, pardon me, you do not look happy. Will you excuse me if I ask you a question ? Perhaps you may think it eo impudent one.’ *1 cannot prevent you asking questions. If your own good taste does not prevent you asking impudent ones, lam sorry. I can only say that I shall not answer them.* ‘You are hard upon me,* he said, growing very pale. *ltis a curious thing, but a woman always hates, or nearly always, a man who loves her, unless she loves him ; ehe is never indifferent. Why do you look upon my love as a crime? I have not—l do not press it upon you, Ido not wonder that you do not love me, but I cannot help loving ycu ; and when I see you looking as you do now, worrie I and ill, am I wrong to feel sorry, and to wish that I could do something to bring the brigt>tne-s and the smiles back to your face. And yet—' Be paused a moment, and looked at her questioninely. *1 woi.der, he said, *if you are like the rest of the w<rld, and hate those who, unfortunately, are to you messengers of evil.' She looked up at him, eta>tled. * Do you mean that you bring me a message of evil ?' she asked. * No. no.’ he said, quickly ; * one could scarcely call it that; and yet you might like me still Jess than you do now, were I to tell you something I have heard.’ * Yes?’ she said questiuningly, feverishly, eagerly ; ‘ yes ?’ * Young Le Breton was a friend of yours, was he not?’ he asked.

* Yes,' she said again, and the white hands clas|>ed each other. ‘ls it of him you have heaid bad tidings. Is he—is he dead ?’

‘No, no,* he said quickly ; ‘he is well—quite well, I believe. Have you not heard from him lately ?’ • No,’ ehe said sadly ; ‘ not for months. * He did not tell you, then, that he was going to be married ?' A sort of stony greyness crossed her face, making the feat urea rigid; her arms dropped at her side.

•Going—to—be—married,’ she repeated. •Going—to—be—married ! No, certainly,’ with a half laugh, ‘ he did not tell me that ; it is news—news to me.’

She spoke in a dull, heavy voice- Her whole form had grown like a piece of statuary, motionless. ‘And yet,’ Ralph went on, * you were old friends.’

‘Oh, yes, old friends—old friends.' * He might have told you.* ‘Yes; he might have.’ ‘You would have been glad to have he ar of his happiness?’ * Yes, yes - glad.’ * It was scarcely considerate.’ ' No, no ; scarcely considerate.'

She spoke in a dull, mechanical voice, almost repeating Ralph’s words, looking straight before her like a woman turned to stone.

Suddenly the muscles relaxed ; she bent a lilt e forward, the blood leaped to her face, her eyes flashed.

* 1 do not believe ir,‘ she said, * not a word of it! Gerald going to be married ! Not he, unless you mean what is true —perfectly true —that he is going to marry me. We have only seven months to wait—it is not long. How dare you come to me with your lies—yes. lies ! Do you think that I cannot see through them ? What if I have not heard for—for some time ? Do letters in England never miscarry ? He has written, and his letters have been lost. He is a* true to me as I am to him, and God knows no one could be truer. He loves me as I love him, and Heaven knows no one could love him more. If I doubted him, I should deserve to have him false to ine, but I do not; I would trust him if all the world came insinuating that he was not tiue. And do you think that, when a creature as false as you are, with a heart as bad as your heart, comes and says, “ Your Gerald ” for he is mine—“ is going to be married, and not to you, ’ do vou think I shall believe it ? Not I - not I ?' * Miss Carthew, you are not treating me as I deserve.’ ‘ No, I am not,’ she answered, her eyes flashing ; • I have not the strength to treat you as you deserve. If I had, I should horsewhip you within an inch of your life.’ * Is that just? I, who am faithful, bring you word of the faithlessness of another ■nan, and all your anger is for me. You dare call me names—very hard names, such

that no man should address to me without a u Bering for them. I ask you if Mr Le Breton baa. told you io any of hia letters that he intended getting married, and you apeak to me aa no lady baa ever apoken to me before. lam sorry that your friend did not tell you that he intended getting married ; the deed ia done now—he ia married.'

He was white aa ahe was; he, too. leaned against a tree aa though bo support himself. For some momenta they looked at each other; then she spoke. * You scarcely expect me to believe your simple word.’ she aaid. firmly ; * you must prove it.* •I am sorry that I can prove it,* be returned : * believe me. Miss Carthew, it is not pleasant to me to give you pain. I did not, on my honour, I did not know the news would upeet you so. I discovered the fact of Mr Le Breton’s marriage quite by accident. I" have friends in Australia—in Melbourne — they send me occasionally newspapers. I saw the account of Mr Le Breton’s marriage in one of them.* * Have you it with you ?’ * Yea.’ He took it from his pocket and held it out to her. Her bands did not shake aa ahe secured it. * I have marked the place,’ he said ; ‘try. Miss Carthew, not to think that I have acted in an unkind spirit. I would spare you pain if 1 could ; but what is the good of your living on in—excuse the words - a fool’s paradise 7* Hope did not answer ; ahe did not seem to hear him. She was looking at the marked paragraph in the paper. Her eyes grew darker and darker; tears of sorrow and humiliation filled them as she read the words. ‘ On the 20th instant., at St. George’s, Melbourne, Gerard Bernard l.e Breton, Barrister-at-law, son of Richard Gerald Le Breton, of Maybury, Croxton, Kent, to Lucy, daughter of John Mellish, of Melbourne. English papers piease copy.’ She must believe it now. It was before her eyes in black and white. No words spoken by man or woman that told her that the one she loved was false would she have believed; but how could she doubt a printed notice ? The tears came no farther than her eyes ; she kept them back bravely. Her voice

waa quite steady ae she handed back the p»par, * Tbank you.* she said. * I have done you an injustice. I did not believe your word —it waa hard to. You must forgive me.’

* Gladly. And you believe now that it baa pained me to bring you the news !* She looked at him curiously for a moment. His eyes fell before here. * No,’ she answered ; * I do not believe that. You hated Gerald.* * Waa it not natural ?’ he returned. * But I loved—l love you. Do you think that willingly I would give you pain ? If you had given me the half promiae that you gave that scoundrel, do you think I would have treated you as he has !* * You forget yourself,' Hope said proudly. ‘Mr Le Breton had a perfect right to marry ; there was no engagement between us. As a friend, I think he might have informed me of his marriage ; but be waa in no way bound to. The hopes that I shall send him for bis happiness will be none the less sincere because in his newfound joy he has forgotten an old playmate.’ Ralph’s face changed ; she did not notice it ; he looked frightened. * You will not write to him, surely ?* he said. ‘ A man who has put such an insult upon a lady should ’ ‘You have no right to give me advice,’ she said, haughtily. * Whether I write to Mr Le Breton or not, can in no wise aifect yoo. Will you leave me now ! I came here for solitude.' He came nearer to her. ‘You will shake hands with met be said. She did not lift here, they hung limply, idly at her side. * What good ?’ she answered ; * we are not—we never shall be friends ; so I think I will not shake bands.’ His face darkened, an expression of evil took possession of it. He turned his head aside for a moment; when he looked at her again it was gone. * I do not wish to be friends—l want to be something nearer and dearer. I love you —God only knows how I love you. But this is no time to tell you of my love; hide it as you will, I know how deeply the arrow of despair has entered into your heart, your soul. Be mine the task to pluck it forth,

to heal the wound, to teach you to forget ; but not now. Miss Carthew. Goodmorning.*

She watched him go, looked until the trees hid him from her sight, then bowed her head upon her hands, and the bitter, hot tears flowed indeed. She spoke no words—folks do not as a rule cry out their grief aloud when there is no one by to hear —but the tierce despair gnawed and gnawed at her heart until it seemed a dead thing. Gerald false ! Gerald married ! How could she believe it ! And yet she must — she had seen it plainly printed. And still it seemed incredible ; he bad seemed so fond, so true ; and now within a little space be had forgotten her—wooed and married another. She wondered vaguely if all men were as false; waa it ‘out of sight out of mind’ always with them? ‘I bad thought sometimes,’ ahe mused to herself bitterly, * that his love for me was greater even than mine for him—that I did not give him measure for measure. I need not have troubled ; be has forgotten me soon—very, very soon. Nothing would havo made me believe him false but that notice—that horrible notice. I most forget him—l must forget him ; it would be a sin for me to love him now he belongs to some other woman, not tome. Sorely if be could take me out of his heart so easily, I can take him out of mine. I will forget him—l will. And yet—and yet how hard it will be. All through my life he has been dear to me as playmate, companion, lover; my life seemed to have been entwined with hie —now they must come asunder. It is a cruel blow that he has struck me ; perhaps he could not help it; perhaps a new and greater love grew up in his heart almost before he waa aware of it. and he was afraid to write and tell me. He need not have been ; I would have forgiven him as I forgive him now. I am sure—quite sure he never meant to be false. We are the creatures of circumstances, and they were too strong for him.’ So, as women do forgive those they love, she forgave him ; but the wound in her heart was none the leas deep, the' cloud that had so suddenly shadowed her life none the lees dark and dense. After Ralph left Hope, be swung along at a good paca Things had gone just as be wished ; with Mrs Carthew on his side

be doubted not but that now he could gain Hope for his wife. He did love the girl with such love aa with him waa possible ; he cared little how much she sorrowed so that in the end he bad her for his own ; hia love waxed selfish, and such love is rather a curse than a blessing. He would go and see Mrs Carthew at once —he would take her the paper, and tell her wbat bis hopes now were. She would bo pleased rather than angry. He reached the Hall gates ; a telegraph - boy came up at the same time. He looked hot and tired—be stopped Ralph. * Are you going up to the Hall, sir ?* * Yes,’ Ralph answered. * Would you mind taking this, then, sir?* be went on. * I'm about dead beat. I brought it four miles along a road without shade from end to end. It’s for Mies Carthew.*

Ralph gave a little start, and reached out his hand. ‘ I’ll take it with pleasure, my boy,’ he said ; * you look tired.’ He took the telegram and went up the drive. After a little while he turned in among the trees, and without hesitation opened it. * Desperate ends need desperate means,' he said, under bis breath. * Ah, I thought so !’ The last words were uttered aa be read the telegram, which ran : ‘From Gerald Le Breton to HopeCarthew : * Don't believe announcement of marriage in Melbourne paper if you see it; it's some plan of Ralph Sefton's. Have written. Of course, it is not true.* * Wbat luck I have !' he aaid, smiling. ‘ Had she bad this, it would have been all up with my hopes. I never dreamed of hie sending a telegram—l was prepared for hie writing.’ He read the telegram through again, and then tore it into small pieces, and put it into his pocket.

‘ Fortune favours the brave,’ he said. ‘ 1 will be brave enough—l will dare anything to gain my end.'

It did not seem to strike him that there was cowardice rather than bravery in fighting with concealed weapons against a girl —in saying, *1 am your friend,’ and playing the traitor. He found Mrs Carthew alone.

I have bad news for you/ he said at once, and gave her the paper. Her face flushed angrily as she read the marked portion, but she only said, gently : • Poor Hope.' • You think ahe will feel it *’ he asked. •Terribly!’ she answered. ‘Who will have the courage to tell her ? I dare not.’ • I thought of that,’ he answered. • I knew how it would pain you. her mother, and, as gently as I could, I have told her.’ • You ?’ ‘ Yes.’ She looked at him for a moment, to see if there was anything like triumph upon his face ; but he knew how to school his features, and bis whole expression was sympathetic. It had startled her at first—almost horrified her, that one lover should tell her of the perfidy of another ; but, the first shock of surprise over, she told herself that it had been done in simple kindness. •It was good of you/ she said, after a time ; ‘it would have been a painful duty for me to perform. How did she take the news?’ ...

• Quietly/ Ralph said, not looking up. ■ I think, perhaps, her heart w; ■> not so far engaged as we thought. Ide t despair of beTng able to comfort your daughter for the loss of her lover—you would wish me luck.’ •Oh yes,’ she answered ; ‘ I would wish you luck ; but I think Hope is not one to love twice.’ • But a mother can do much. It may be that she may marry, as many girls do who have been jilted or disappointed, to show that there is one who can love them faithfully. if another is faithless, and I care not for what reason she marries, so long as she does marry me.’ •It is a dangerous experiment,’ Mrs Carthew said. ‘ to marry a woman who has no love for you.’ •I do not think so,’ he answered. *1 hold that any husband can win a wife’s lov e I am confident that, if your daughter will give herself to me, that I shall be able to make her happy.’ • 1 think she never will give herself to you or to any man now.’ • But you will do what you can for me ?' • Yes ’ He took her hand in both his.

• I thank you with all my heart,’ he said, • with you upon my side, I feel that my victory is half won.’ CHAPTER X. Months had passed since Jack, Humpy and the two children —though the girl could scarcely be called a child now—had made their perilous journey, and at last reached England in safety. There the nugget was soon changed into gold, and, following out a long formed intention, Jack came back once more to hie native place. It was scarcely likely that any one would recognise in the middle aged man, who had spent so many years in California, the handsome young fellow who had left the place twenty years previously, and it was not

Jack's wish to be recognised. He had come back to be revenged upon his cousin Ralph ; he had always meant to, so soon as he should make enough money to be able to leave the diggings. Revenge is sweet, and, though it io wrong, perhaps, it is human nature to wish for it, and a man will wait many years in the hope of accomplishing bis end. Jack had taken a little cottage far enough away from the castle, and there he and Humpy, and the girl and boy, lived quietly enough. They all knew the story, and the wish for revenge was great in all their hearts.

It was a pretty little cottage they rented, covered with roses and honeysuckle—an earthly paradise. There was a square garden all round, filled with sweet oldfashioned flowers and great evergreen trees.

Jack seldom went beyond it ; but Humpy and the children made excursions into the neighbouring country. With England Mispah was delighted ; there was something so restful in its calm beauty after the rugged grandeur they had left. Everything was peaceful ; the hills rose so gently, not as though they had been thrown up by a great convulsion of the earth ; the grass was so soft and green, not waving waist high, as she had been used tn see it. She loved to wander about the lawns, to pick the sweet-scented flowers, and arrange them in pretty bouquets. Sometimes she and Noel would go fishing together, sitting for hours on the forgetme not starred banks, watching the float bob up and down as the ripples passed by it. They bad made no friends, they wanted none ; the pair were perfectly happy together. Summer was merging into autumn ; the red and brown and golden tints were touching the trees ; the wind was strewing the ground with leaves. Mispah and Noel, rod in hand, were walking along the river’s bank looking out for a likely place to fling in their lines. They had fished a good piece of the stream and wished to go higher up. •This is a nuisance I’ Noel said, standing by an iron railing which barred their onward progress. ‘ 1 wonder what they are stuck up for? I could get over it, of course ; but could you ?’ • Could I?’ Mispah returned, looking at it a little scornfully. • Well, I should think so, and as easily as you, I should fancy.’ She put her hands upon the railing, then climbed it easily, laughing merrily when she reached the other side before him.

‘lt is nice here, is it not? 1 she said, as they pushed their way through a hedge, and stood looking at the well mown grass and cultivated flower-beds; ‘very nice. How silly we have been not to come here before.’

• More than silly,’ he answered, going from tree to tree and filling his hands with late roses. • The flowers are better here, the banks are better—everything is better than upon the other side of the fence. We will always come here now, Mispah.’ They eat down upon the bank, fixed their rods, and threw their lines out into the water, then scarcelj exchanged a word, silently watching their floats as good fishermen should. Now and then the float bobbed under, then there would be a little exci.ement, playing with and landing the fish ; one or two big fellows they caught and laid away in their basket with some grass and riverweed. So wrapped up were they in their employment that they did not hear footsteps approaching them—did not know that some one, with a half-vexed, halfatnu°ed smile, was watching them Mispah’s float went under with a dash ; she ’ struck,’ then let the winch go, and the line ran through it like lightning. • It’s a big one, this time she said, ‘be is pulling tremendously.’ • Can I help you ?’ Noel asked, laying his own rod down. • Yes; get the net ready.’ she answered. She looked very beautiful, standing rod in hand, with a flush of excitement upon her cheeks, and an eager bright light in her eves. Noel looked at her and thought so, but her face was turned away from the watcher He was a fisherman himse f. aud it annoved him to see these children fishing from his land. He came forward and raised his hat. The boy heard him coming ; the girl was too taken up with her fish. ‘ Perhaps you are not aware that this is my land,’ Lord Glenferris—for it was he—said. • Your claim, is it!’ Noel said, dropping into the old term. ‘No; I did not know it ; but we re not touching the land.’ • Hush !' Mispah said, turning her head, and revealing a face of such marvellous beauty that he started; ‘don’t talk—l'm going to land him now.' Very slowly and very skillfully she drew him in. Noel had the net ready, and the great glittering fish was safel ‘ended upon the bank.

‘ A jack,’ Mispah said, looking at it, and taking no notice of the stranger. ‘ Won’t dad and Humpy enjoy it for supper ?’ ‘Won’t they?' Noel returned. •If we are lucky we may catch another.' • Scarcely another of the same size,’ Lord Glenferris said, looking over at the girl. ‘I have never been so fortunate.' ‘You fish hero sometimes, then ¥ she said turning toward him with a perfect absence of anything like shyness. • 1 es,’ be answered : • this is my land, and I fish from this spot frequently.’ ‘ Perhaps, then, we ought not to come here ?’

• On the contrary,’ he said, quickly, colouring a little when he thought how the gill’s pretty face had made him change his mind as to what he would say to them. ‘ I hope you will come here very often ; only I must say that I am puzzled to know how you managed to get in.’ • Easy enough,’ Noel answered ; ‘ we climbed the railing. We wondered what it wee put there for. Of course, to mark out your claim. It is a large one,’ looking round about him, ‘ and land is so dear hero

in England I don’t quite understand why you get nothing out ot it. I don’t suppose there is an ounce of gold in all yours.'

• I don’t suppose there is.' Lord Glenferrie said, smiling. ‘But indeed you are mistaken. We do get a golden harvest out of our land. Look yonder at the cornfields ; you never saw more gold massed together •han there is there.' • Yoe, but io colour only.’

‘ At present, yee ; but in a month it will be turned into money. And my “ claim,’’ as you call it, cost me nothing ; it was left me by my father.’ There was a little pause. Mispah had thrown her line once more, and was watching the float. Noel flung himself upon bis back on the grass, and was looking up at the sky. ‘I suppose/ Lord Glenferris said, glancing down at him. and thinking what a handsome boy he was, ‘ that you have not been long in England ?' • A few months—that is all,’ he returned. ‘All our life nearly we have lived in California, at the diggings—the gold diggings.’ • Your—your sister also?’ • Mispah ? Oh. yes.’ •It must be a great change for you here Y

• A groat change, but we like it—perhaps for that very reason. We have a pretty little place about a mile from here, and are very happy.’ • You don’t think of going back, I suppose ?’ • 1 think my father has no intention of doing so.’ ‘ And yet you must miss the excitement. I fancy it must be a delightful feeling when one sees a great piece of gold glittering among the earth Y • It is so very seldom that one does,’ Noel answered ; ‘ and 1 never worked in the gulch. My father would not allow it. He did everything for us himself. He is the best father in the world.’ • And your mother?’ ‘ We have no mother?

Again there was silence. Lord Glenferris looked at the beautiful girl who seemed so ladylike and refined, chough she had lived among surroundings which might well have spoilt any girl. ‘ Do you think you will like England ?’ he asked, moving a few steps nearer to Mispah. • 1 am sure that I shall/ she answered, turning to him for a moment. ‘ I have always thought of England as home. It is a beautiful place.’ • Not so beautiful, I suppose, as Cali fornia?’

• Not so grand,’ she returned, ‘ but quite aa lovely and more graceful. Nature and human nature are both rough in California ; one never sees a pretty homestead there, with father and mother and children grouped around the door, happy and con tented, as I have seen often here ; there is seldom a woman in the camps, and I think I might almost say never a child.’ ‘ You had no playmates or companions, then ?’ • Ihad my brother, my father and Humpy; I wanted no more.’ ‘Humpy? That is a curious name.’ • You would probably think Humpy a curious man,’ Noel broke in ; ‘he has arms that almost touch the ground—a humpback —and is altogether the strangest looking person that you can imagine, but as brave as a lion and as true as steel.'

’And you call him "Humpy?” Is that not a little cruel, since he is deformed ?’ •We did not give him that name,’ Mispah answered. ‘A man gets named directly he reaches the diggings. Humpy does not mind his name in the least; my father was called "Gentleman Jack.” If you will tell me what your Christian name is, I think probably I can tell you what you would have been called.’ • My friends call me Bob.’ he answered ; ' my name is really Robert.’ ‘ Then I think,’ she said, smiling, ‘that you would be called “ Pine the Bob.”' ‘Why’’ ‘ Because you are so tall and straight, aaid Mispah. Turning to her brother, • Put up the rode ; it is time we went home.’ ‘ You will come here and fish again ?' Lord Glenferris said. ■ Thank you, yes ; we have not had such good sport anywhere else.’ ’ And you will come in at the gate, perhaps,’ he went on, smiling a little. •It must be awkward for a lady to climb over the railings. Perhaps you will come through my grounds now. I think it will not take you much out of your way. I don't know ' —looking perfectly innocent, and not at all as though he was • fishing ’ to find where this beautiful divinity lived — ‘quite where your hou.e is situated, but not far from here, I suppose ?’ ‘lt can scarcely be dignified by the name of house,’ Mispah answered; ‘it is but a pretty cottage. Laurel Cottage it is called, in the Scorfell Road.’

The young man’s face grew bright. ‘ Laurel Cottage !' he repeated ; • then, you are my tenants, and live not a stone’s throw from my place. I have, then, I

suppose, the pleasure of speaking to Miss Kepple ?' He wondered as he looked at her why she changed colour, why the crimson flash dyed her face. Had he' glanced at the boy he would have seen that he was every bit as uncomfortable as bis sister ; it was almost the first time they had heard any stranger mention the name their father had decided to assume when he returned to bis native village. * Yes,* she answered, hesitatingly ; * I am Miss Kepple. You have heard of os, then ?’ ‘From my agent—yea. I wonder, Mias Kepple, if your father would allow me to cull upon him ?’ * 1 think he would rather you did not,’ she said, colouring again ; * it sounds inhospitable, but he sees no one.’ * He is an invalid, perhaps?’ * Oh, no.’ * A misanthrope, then ?’ * Yes ; some might call him that.' They walked along after that for some time in silence ; the questions and answers had made them all uncomfortable. There was a mystery evidently, the young man thought. He was not generally suspicious, but he did wonder what it was. Had the father of this lovely girl done something wrong ? and did he wish to escape the eyes of men lest he should be recognised. He knew, of course, that the golddiggings was a place where much of the scum of the earth fled when England and other countries grew too hot for them.

Had this man, years before, commi'ted some crime, and fled away to escape the judgment of the law ? and had he now returned from sheer homesickness, and at the risk of being caught ? He turned these things over in hie mind as he plucked flowers for Mispab, filling the girl’s hands with the fragrant blossoms. He had never seen anyone he thought so lovely. Up to now Hope Uarthew had been hie ideal of female loveliness, but she was beyond his reach. And this girl seemed to him even more beautiful ; he thought he should like to see her flitting about hie house. He wondered vaguely if there was any one whom she loved ;he hoped not. And yet, if there was something wrong in her father’s past, however beautiful, however good she might be herself, she could never be anything to him. He bad not fallen in love with her. In spite of what poets say, folks seldom love at first sight. He thought her beautiful; he felt almost sure that she was as good as she was lovely ; but, whether her nature would accord with his, he could not tell, and only where there is harmony is mere true love.

Of the many shams of earth, chiefest folly and disgrace. Hold I lore that owes it birth To a trick of form or face Love forsooth I A mere pretence Fools and boys can feign at ease ; But I know the man of sense Only loves by slow degrees.

A face may fascinate, captivate the senses; but true, pure love comes only when we find that the jewel is as fair as the casket —that the heart and mind are beautiful as the face and form. • Y’ou will think but little of our English flowers,’ he said. • They are more brilliant and beautiful in the country you have come from.’ • But not so sweet,’ she returned. • You have sweet buds and scented flowers here. I think you should be more content. I cannot understand anyone who has had a home in England leaving it for any other country.’ • And yet your father did.’ • Yes ; he had his own reasons for leaving the country; but as soon as he was fortunate he returned to his native place.’ • Your father did not find the diggings

altogether a disappointment, then ?’ * Oh, no. For some time he had no luck, but after a time he was fortunate.' They bad reached the gates which shut in Lord Glenfeiris’ grounds from the roadway. A man from the lodge opened them, and they passed out. Noel looked at the young man a little jealously. Until now, be and Mispah had been all-in-all to each other. He did not want anyone to come between them. * Don’t trouble to come any farther with us,’ he said, a little sharply. * It is a pleasure, not a trouble,’ the young man answered. *1 am a lonely fellow at most times. It is a charity for someone to take pity on me, and talk to me.’ * Lonely !’ Mispah related. * Have you not father or mother, or brother or sister, living with you in that great house ?' * I have no one but the servants,’ he answered. * I am that most pitiable object, an orphan boy. I live down here some time during the year, because I think it only right that a man should reside part of the year upon his property—that he should spend at least some of his income near the source from which he takes it. But lam very dull, very lonely sometimes. I might fill my house with friends, you may say; but I have no one Io play hostess, so could not invite ladies, and to the constant society of my own sex lam not partial. So, if you will take pity upon me sometimes, fish from my grounds, and let me come and talk to you, you will be doing a Christian charity.’ Lord Glenterris scarcely spoke the truth when he said that he felt the want of female companionship, for up to thia time he never had.

Ladies were glad enough to welcome him to their homes. Mothers with marriageable daughters made much of him and the daughters themselves greeted him with their sweetest smile.

He had not been a general lover of women. He had admired Hope Carthew immensely, and now Mi-pah’s beautiful face took his fancy. He wanted to make her pity him, and he succeeded.

She looked upon the lonely young man with new interest. And he, knowing full well that be should have to win the boy as well as the girl over to his side if he wished to become well acquainted with Mispah, turned to Noel.

*1 have good shooting at my place,’ he said. * 1 need scarcely ask you if you can handle a gun. Come and take a pop at the birds whenever you like.’ The boy's eyes sparkled ; his heart was won.

*1 will come with pleasure,’ he answered ; ‘ and so wilt Mispah, lam sure. She is a better shot than L am.’

• You shoot!’ tne young man said, turning to her in surprise.

‘Oh yes,’ she answered; ‘everyone shoots in California. A steady hand and a sharp eye have saved our lives before now.’ * And you will come and shoot at my place ?’ ‘lt all depends,’ she answered, * for what reasons you shoot. If that you may provide yourself with a meal, I will with pleasure; but if simply for pleasure, to show and improve your skill, no ’ The young man smiled to bimselr. ‘Women are curious creatures, he thought; • they will never acknowledge that they enjoy killing anything for the simple pleasure of destroying. They must have some kind of excuse.*

• We will kill that I may eat and live,’ he said, gravely. ‘ When will you come ? To-morrow ?’ • If our father is willing—yes.’ ‘Y’ou think he would not come himself. He would meet no one but me.’ ‘ I think not ; but I will ask him. Humpy might like to come. He was the beet shot in the camp.’ ‘ Then ask him to come, by all means. The more the merrier.’ They had reached the little gate of the cottage. Noel unlatched it, and stood with hie back against it. Mispah had one hand upon the low stone wall which inclosed the cottage garden. Lord Glenferris stood by her, his hat in hie hand, saying good-bye. Ralph Setton, riding by, reined in his horse to a walk, and looked at the boy and girl with a startled, almost frightened, look upon his face. • How like,’ he said, under his breath—- * how strangely like !’ then raised his hat, and passed on. • How strangely that man looked at us !' Noel said. • Who was he ?’ ■ ‘Ralph Sefton,’ the young man answered ; * one of the largest landowners hereabout.’ • Ralph Sefton,’ they repeated, their faces flushing and growing pale. • Yes,’looking at them, and wondering why the mere name made them change colour. * Do you know him.’ • No—oh, no.’ You've heard of him, then ?’ •Yes.’ • In California ?’ • Yes.’ ' That is strange, and, yet, the name of

either a good or a bad man travels far ; it is those who are neither one nor the other who are unspoken of.’ •And Ralph Sefton—do you think he is a good or a bad man ?’ • A bad man—a man whom I would not have you know. There was a story about him years ago which baa never been cleared up. He is received in society here. Mothers —more shame to them—make much of him, but if I had a sister or a wife, he should never enter my house. ’ ‘ You believed the story, then ?’ • Yes, I believed it—you have heard it perhaps ?’ • Y'es.’ • In California ?" • Y'es. Now we must say good-bye. I am glad, since we are to be friends, that you do not believe in Ralph Sefton.’ CHARTER XI. • Bob. • Yes. • I want to speak to you. ’ Lord Glenferris stopped his horse unwillingly ; he was taking an evening ride, thinking of the beautiful girl he had met that morning. The last person he wished to see was Ralph Sefton. ‘Well, what is it!* he said, not too amiably. • Who was that you were talking to this morning ?' • What's that to you ?’ shortly. ‘ Nothing, only I should like to know.’ ‘Should you ? Well, I should like to know a great many things that I don’t.' • Do you really mean that you won't tell me ?’ Bob flicked his horse gently with his whip. • I don’t really see what business it is of yours.’ Ralph did not intend to lose his temper; he made a point of never doing so until he had gained his end. • Perhaps it’s no business of mine,’ he answered ; ‘only when one asks a civil question, one hopes for—l won’t say expects —a civil answer ; but I can easily find out for myself.’ Bob thought a little bit and wondered. Why was Ralph so wishful to know? Had he heard of Mispah and Noel as they had heard of him ? Was there some connection between them ? •Why are you so anxious to know ?’ he asked. Ralph laughed, but the laugh was a little uneasy, Bob noticed. • Well, she was decidedly pretty,’ he answered awkwardly ; * that ought to be enough reason for any man. Come, Bob, old man, tell me who she is.’ • The daughter of my new tenant.’ • Yes, but what is her name ?’ ‘ I don’t know.’ ‘ You don’t know your tenant’s name ?’

* Y’ou said her name.’ Ralph grew a little impatient. * Hang you. Bob ! you’re enough to try a saint,' he said. * I mean ‘he surname, of course.' • Kepple. ’ ‘ K epple ! repeating the name and look ing incredulous. ‘Are you sure?' ‘Quite sure,* Bob answered readily, though he very much doubted the truth of his statement. * Now, I suppose, 1 may continue my ride?* Ralph put out his hand and caught the rein. ‘Turn back and spend the evening with me,’ he said * I’m horribly lonely; so must you be.’ •You shou'd get married, then; there are plenty who would have you, though I tell you plainly, Ralph, that, if I were a man with daughters, you should never enter my doors.’ Ralph laughed softly. • If you were a man with daughters you would change your tune,’ bo said. • You would be only too glad to get them off your hands ; but, since you advise matrimony, introduce me to Miss Kepple, and I*ll try to oblige you.’ • Not I.’ ‘You won’t? Then, I will call at the cottage ; that is but right and neighbourly.’ ‘ Y’ou'll have the door shut in your face.’ Ralph flushed angrily. ‘ And pray, why?’ he asked. * Because they know all about you ; the fame of your misdeeds has travelled even as far as California.’ Ralph’s face grew thoughtful and troubled. ‘California!’ he eaid; ‘is that where they came from ?’ ‘Yes.’ He was silent for a moment, then, with his hand still upon the horse’s bridle, he led him round. ‘ Come home with me, Bob,* he said again. ‘ I’m precious lonely, and we can have a hand at Nap. I know you don’t like me, and I’m not over partial to you ; still, if two lonely fellows who next-door to hate each other, can meet and pass an evening cheerfully, it’s as well.’

‘lll come,’ Bob said, letting his horse walk slowly. • Y’ou are quite right; though Ralph, I hate your charact.r.’ ‘ You hate at least what some people say I have not, Ralph answered, laughing loudly ; ‘but we can't all be Simon Pures, I suppose. A reformed rake makes the beet husband, so it is said. I shall make some woman happy yet.’ • I pity the one that chances it,' Bob said, under his breath. Then they went on in silence till they reached the castle. ‘ A fine place this,' Bob said, as he sat by the low wood fire in the armorv, for the evening had turned chilly. ‘ I "feel like some good knight; a martial spirit seems to burn within me. How well a man must have looked cased in his glittering armour, hie plume waving from hie helmet, hie lady's badge resting upon his breast ; and how proud that same lady must have been as she watched him ride away from her turiet-window.’ ‘ Not a whit prouder than the girls of the present day are of their lovers in broadcloth and high hats, Ralph answered. ‘ Each thinks her own particular knight the beat of men and does not envy another girl, unless her lover happens to have more money.’

‘Y’ou are cynical ; you cannot really think that women are mercenary.’ • I cannot really help it,’ he answered. ‘ Look round you, and see if women do not love money and cieature-comforts. Mothers are more mercenary, perhaps, than their daughters ; they have seen that love and romance fade away as the years of married life go on, that wealth is a good, substantial thing indeed, and they advise us as their hardly earned wisdom prompts them. Ido not blame them ; money is a good thing ; poverty must, be horrible, and to be mercenary is natural. Perhaps it does not come out until late in life in some ; the finer qualities are on the surface, but, when they are used up, then their dregs show themselves, and among the dregs is the love of money.’ • Y’ou are quite eloquent.’ He held up his glass to the light ; the subdued red light fell upon the yellow wine, making it sparkle like liquid gold. • \\ ho would not bo eloquent when drinking wine like this ?’ he said; ‘it was laid down by tny great uncle soon after he came of age. It has been in bottle more than a hundred years.’

‘Y’our great-uncle?’ Bob repeated. ‘I wonder if the old man would be vexed if he knew that it was not one of the direct line who was drinking his cherished wine. It was curious your coming into the place as you did. Have you ever heard anything of your cousin ?' ‘Nothing,’ Ralph answered, a frown crossing his face. ‘And you have never taken the trouble to inquire ?’

•No, never; we were never friends,

though cousins. But the subject is dietasteful to me ; let us drop it.’ They played for a time in silence, passing the money backward and forward, and seeming neither of them to win much. * Have you beard the latest news f Ralph said at last, putting down a queen, and not looking up from hie cards. * What’s that?' Bob asked, covering it with the king.

* Only,’ dealing quickly, with his cigar between his teeth, and puffing the smoke out lazily. * that Gerald Le Breton is married.’

* Married I’ Bob repeated, letting his cards drop, and showing that he had an unmistakable Nap hand in diamonds. • Married I What, on the sly ?’ ‘ Oh, dear : no.’ * But I never heard of it; and Hope and I have always boen such chums.’ ‘Hope? Oh, Mies Cart how, you mean? But he has not married her.’

•Not?’ * Oh, dear, no I he’s married some lady in Australia.’ •in Australia! I don’t believe it. If ever a fellow loved a girl, he loved Hope ; and if ever a girl deserved to be loved Hope did and does.’

* I quite agree with you. Nevertheless, he has not married her. There was no actual engagement, I believe, so the fellow has not acted dishonourably.’ Bob's face paled with anger. * You must have a curious idea of honour if you can say that,’ he said. * What more dishonourable act can a man do than to win a girl’s love, and then throw her aside for another ? But I cannot—l won’t believe it of Gerald.’ * I would not have believed it unless I had seen the notice in the paper,’ Ralph returned. • I am sorry for the girl, and think the fellow a fool. I very much doubt if Australia can raise such girls as Hope Carthew. 1 can’t be altogether sorry, though, for I love her myself. Now I shall try again to win her.’ As he spoke, some alight sound—so slight as almost to be called the ghost of a sound —drew his attention to the other end of the armoury, and there, rising slowly, was the white figure he had seen before.

Bob had seen it. too. and was gazing with wide-open, frightened eyes. Neither moved ; both seemed glued to their chairs.

Slowly it came toward them ; the light fell upon the beautiful white face. Bob gave a great start. Close to Ralph it paused ; and, then, low and solemnly, it spoke : • Beware, Ralph Sefton, how you trifle with another woman’s happiness. Death may come swift as a lightning-flash. Be warned ! Rest content with the wickedness you have already worked.' Slowly it moved on, and stood for a moment beside the steel clad figure of a knight; then disappeared. White to the lips, Ralph sat. great beads of perspiration breaking out upon bis skin. ‘ Never will I enter this fearful place again,' he said, with quivering lips. • It’s enough to kill me.’ •But what was it ? Who is the lady?’ Bob asked. • Lady !’ Ralph repeated, rising from his seat ; * it’s a spirit—a ghost. I declare I’m quite unnerved. Let’s get out of here.’ *At all events,’ Bob said, laughing, and looking round with a half-frightened look, * she knows you intimately.’ * Yes; the fiend seize her !’ * But who is it—whose spirit is it?’ •How should I know?’ sharply; ‘some Beast of an ancestress, I suppose.’ • Where did she get to?’ * I don’t know ; I know where she would get to if I had my way.’ ‘ It's strange,' Bob said, musingly ; * 1 suppose it’s not a trick, Ralph ?’ • Devil a bit.’ ‘ You’re not well acquainted with Miss Kepple, after all ?’ •Miss Kepple. In Heaven’s name what has she got to do with it?’ ‘ Do you mean to say you did not notice ?’ Bob said, coming nearer to Ralph. • Why, Miss Kepple is the very image of your ancestral ghost.'

He looked at Ralph for an answer, but no answer came ; hie lips and face grew livid, an ague of fear seemed to seize him, and be fell down tike a log, in a dead faint.

(7 b be Continued.)