A Woman’s Heart

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXII, Issue XV, 15 April 1899, Page 474

A Woman’s Heart

By

MRS EFFIE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS.

CHAPTER 111. Justina sat for a lons' time in one attitude after her husband had driven rapidly away. She had planted her two elbows on the table and had bowed her head upon her hands. She did not often allow herself so long a spell of idleness, but to-night the effort to rouse herself from her thoughts and start once again at her work was not so easy to accomplish as usual. The unexpected meeting with Basil Fothergill had thrown her, as it were, off the straight, hard lines of her laborious daily life. He had broken a kind of spell in her thoughts, he had revived old memories, old sweetnesses, old sadnesses. He had emphasized the present weary unhappiness by bringing so clearly before her the remembrances of those old dead days, when life had had few shadows for little Justina North, despite the fact that poverty and she had already become acquainted. Her childhood had been a simple and yet a far from conventional one. Her mother she never remembered. As long as she could recollect at all she had been alone always with her father, who had been to her something dearer than a parent —a loving friend, a sweet companion, a protector, and a playmate, even though the silver threads had been sown thickly enough in Richard North’s hair before the baby girl, only blossom of his late-made love marriage, was sent into the world to fill, if possible, the terrible void made by her mother’s death, and to become in time the very joy, the sunshine, the soul of the man’s life.

It was for Justina's sake that Mr North determined, as the years rolled by, that he must set to work and devise some means by which money might be added to his scanty clergyman’s stipend.

Capital had he none except the capital that lodged in his clever brains: but these, in conjunction with his superb classical education and his years of deep thought and reading, proved all he could need. Basil Fothergill had been one of Mr North’s earliest pupils, and he had quickly become endeared to his tutor’s heart, not on account of his brilliant talents, however, for truth to tell Basil was not by any means inclined to be a genius or anything above the most ordinary boy of mental calibre, but because of his sterling nature, his frank, honest, chivalrous mind, his humanity to all creatures that surrounded him; and last, but not least, in Richard North’s eyes, his extreme love and admiration for the dainty, fiower-like child, who flitted about the old rectory like a sunbeam eaught and fashioned into a fairy’s form.

The rest of tin- boys were kind also to Justina. but they, none of them, had Basil’s touch or sympathy with the child, and. in fact, to most of them Justina assumed that contemptible and humiliating position which from time immemorial little girls have nearly always occupied in the estimation of little boys—or rather, perhaps one should say, little men. It made no difference to Justina what the boys thought of her. She was absolutely happy. She was Queen of the Household. She had Basil as her big, faithful companion to play with her, or amuse her. or protect her, as the case might be. and she also had her studies which—with maybe an inherited taste from her father—she learned quickly to enjoy ami love. It was just before Basil left his tutor's house that Rupert Seaton made his appearance among Mr North’s boys. The son of a brother clergyman, whose yearly income no greater than that which Justina's father possessed, had to find support and education of a large growing family, the boy was given a place among the other pupils through a feeling of sincerest affection and truest pity. Not one penny piece was paid to Richard North for the tuition and shelter that he gave young Rupert Seaton, but he asked for no better thunks than the sense of pleasure

it gave him to come thus nobly to the assistance of a brother clergyman, whom he knew and respected most exceedingly. Looking back into the garden of her girlhood as she sat with her head bowed on her two hands, Justina realised, almost with a pang, how, from the very first, Rupert Seaton had shown himself to be the narrow, ungenerous, ungrateful and unworthy nature that she knew him now so surely to be. Instead of giving even the faintest semblance of gratitude to his benefactor or seeming to comprehend for a single instant the full extent and depth of the goodness being bestowed on him, Rupert comported himself as one who, on his side, conferred an honour upon the genial, kindhearted tutor by becoming an occupant and pupil in his establishment. Justina remembered, too, how. in some unaccountable yet certain way. little quarrels and dissensions and disagreeables began to make themselves felt after Rupert Seaton had arrived on the scene. It was clear to her now that he must have been absolutely unpopular with the rest of the boys. Sir Basil’s manner had been so full of significance when she had mentioned her husband’s name to him. and Justina knew only too surely and with a weary heartache that, however great and universal Rupert’s unpopularity might have been, it was only too justly founded, too well deserved. Even to - night, when facts and thoughts and remembrances of the past stood out so clearly before her, Justina could not have explained satisfactorily to herself or to others how she had come to do so rash a thing as to become Rupert Seaton’s wife. The days that had preceded her father’s death—the actual death itself—and the weeks that had followed it were all merged into one great grey shadow of pain, misery, hopeless yearning, hopeless regret. Her short sojourn at her uncle's house had awakened her sharply from her deep soul anguish. The sting of per-petually-reminded charity, the cruel words thrust .at her dead father’s memory, the hard comments on his life of patient foil, of honourable industry. of mistaken faith, which last, sorrowfully for himself and his loved child, laid him in a pauper’s grave. The insupportable misery of dependence upon the sullen generosity of those who did not like her worked the poor girl into a ripe condition to perform any rash act.

It was a cruel touch of fate that Justina’s rashness should have taken the form of one who carried her merely from one trouble to another, and a far greater one. There is no doubt that in the first instance Rupert Seaton had fallen in love (or what passed for love with him) with Justina. The girl was extremely pretty—she was, indeed, more than pretty—she possessed a rare sort of loveliness which made itself manifest to all, and which, perhaps, was not the least of the reasons that made her so unwelcome a member of her aunt’s household, the same said aunt possessing three daughters of plainest and most unattractive appearance. Added to her beauty were her talents. Her father had educated her most carefully, and in a way such as few girls are educated even in this age of advanced culture for women. Rupert knew the girl’s cleverness. He had had definite testimony of it in the latter days of his stay beneath her father’s roof, for had it not been for Justina’s help he would never have made so brave a show in his examination papers as he managed to do. For her beauty first, for her talents secondly, for her social connections on her mother’s side, although Justina had (except in the case of her Aunt Margaret) almost next to no acquaintance, to say nothing of intimacy, with these grand relations, and, because, by the sale of her father's cherished library at his (Rupert’s) instigation, by the way, the girl became the possessor of about a couple of hundred pounds in ready

money—he determined to make her his wife.

Work of any sort or description had no charms whatsoever for Mr Seaton. His father had long since been gathered to his rest, and Rupert’s proper duty would have been to have buckled to and done all in his power to help his mother and the rest of his family had he had a spark of affection or manhood in him; but Rupert was born a soulless being, for though his outward individuality was more than prepossessing, his mind and brain and heart were mere empty shells significant of no meaning save of intense selfishness, and of all the evils that follow on that base feeling. When his mother and his young brothers and sisters were shipped off to another and a distant land by a combination of relatives. Rupert heaved a sigh of relief. It would have been annoying to live perpetually with the possibility of some claim being made upon him, upon his brains and hands as a man if not upon his purse and, therefore, it was with great relief that he watered the departure of his poor sorrowladen mother, who would willingly have lived in a mud hut all her life if she could by so doing have been near to and able to gaze upon the fair face of her eldest born.

Rupert was, at the time that he proposed marriage to Justina, supposed to be earning a small salary as secretary to some city company, and it was armed with this credential of his prosperity that he induced the unhappy girl to leave her uncle’s house and make her home with him. Not that Justina had a grain of mercenary fear or avariciousness in hexconstitution, only Rupert knew right well that, unless he had some definite position to offer her, he should never succeed in making hex’ consent to his wishes.

It was a strong characteristic of the man that he always determined to get what he desired, if it were humanly possible, and he very much desired for a brief while to win Justina as his wife.

She was beautiful, she was proud, and she possessed talents which would always be sure of bringing in value of some sort. With the money fetched by the sale of her father's books they could live very comfortably for a few months at least; after that—well, Rupert hail the firmest belief in chance and in his owxx good fortune — something would turn up. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof’ hail always been a favourite maxim with him, and the value of it increased as the days of his life went bv.

Misled absolutely by the young man’s manner, blinded by her grief and misery to the wisdom and caution which were strongly a part of hex- nature, grateful to find, as she imagined, poor child, one loving, faithful heart. Justina consented to leave her uncle’s house and become Rupert Seaton’s wife. She did not love him; she did not even know what love could mean, save that yearning love that turned in its despair to her father’s grave, but she was so grateful, so touched by the seeming' devotion, the disinterested affection that was offered to her, that she turned to it gladly, and with her own hand set the seal on the most miserable mistake any girl could hope to accomplish. A month was long enough in which to open Justina's eyes to the truth. The meanness, the poverty, the despicable selfishness of the man she had married, was revealed to her most surely in some form or other day after day, until at last she could not cling to one single illusion with which to elothe his soul and hide its vivid blemishes from hex’ eves.

As we have said, Justina had not loved this man. but the pain, the grief, the regret that overwhelmed her when she knew him for what he really was. were scarcely less strong for that.

She was, above all things, so proud, so honourable in her pride, so incapable of a mean or unworthy thought, that Rupert’s natural evilness was something appalling to her. She could not combat with it; she learned almost immediately the futility of arguing or urging good maxims, or of impressing her own pure influence upon him.

In sheer material need and in the bitterness of mental despair, the girl turned from contemplating the ruin of her young life, and took up the burden of earning u livelihood for

them both with a zest and an eagerness that might have been said to constitute the only pleasure she knew.

Rupert Seaton had been wise in his generation. His young wife possessed the brains and the faculty for earning good, steady money; his wants were amply supplied to cover his detestable idleness and selfishness. He began to assume a sort of invalidism which deceived and appealed to Justina not a little at first because his fair, handsome presence was suggestive most certainly of inherent delicacy of constitution and feebleness of physical force. She learned, however, by degrees, how much iruth there was in Rupert's ill health, and how much more faithfully this delicacy might be expressed in other and harsher terms.

Of late a subtle and not easily to be defined difference had made itself manifest to Justina in her husband's bearing. There had come a change upon him. a sort of restlessness and excitement not in keeping with his usual languid, luxurious idleness. She attributed it a little to the fact that about six months before Rupert had made the acquaintance of some young men who belonged, the girl feared, to a rackety, foolish, extravagant set, and who were as wanting in honour and chivalry and any of the higher and better qualities of the mind as Rupert could desire.

Since the introduction of this (ieorge Aynesworth and one or two others Rupert had given Justina many hours of deep, anxious, distressed thought. She was perfectly willing to work her hardest to sustain them both in a simple, straightforward fashion. The life she was able to provide was not by any means a luxurious one, but it was not devoid of comfort or of a certain humble prettiness, but it took all her time and strength and courage to keep this life going. To find money for Rupert to fling away on folly or extravagance in any shape or form was quite beyond Justina's means, and yet of late her husband had made serious inroads on her limited purse, and had shown a desire to surround himself and dress himself in a manner that tilled the girl's heart with alarm and with contempt. The connection with this Aynesworth and his companions boded no good to them;, that was soon evident to Justina. and indeed the girl had begun to ponder and trouble what her best plan would be to sever her husband from these companions, and to save herself from further anxiety, to say nothing of pain to her pride and her sense of honour. She had long ago relinquished all hope of seeing Rupert turn to work. His first bitter lesson in this knowledge had been taught early. Soon after their marriage he lost the small appointment he had held, and Justina. in her sorrow, had made personal application to see if it would not be possible to regain this post, which, though small, had been a certainty.

The reception she met with, though courteous enough as far as she was concerned, sent her away crushed, humbled, suffering. It hurt her to have to realise that the man she had married should be one and the same with the man whose character and conduct had just been denounced in such plain, severe terms. She never told Rupert what she had done. He would have merely shrugged Ids shoulders and called his late employers by some strong and illchosen word. She only knelt down when she was alone and prayed for help and courage to bear her burden as well and as bravely as she could.

Ami so the time had gone on. the days had grown into weeks, and the weeks into months, and now it was a long two years since she had left her uncle’s home, and plunged herself with all her beautiful youth into an abyss of mental trouble and perpetual labour.

Somehow, however, it was not until this night, as she sat with her head bowed on her hands, and tears of flaming blinded her eyes as the old sweet memories of the past crowded so thickly upon her, that the full bitterness of her life seemed to be revealed to Justina —that the contrast with the present and the past was made clear to her; that I he hopelessness of her future struck her with such despairing force. Weary, heartsick and deso-

late, Justina. as she roused herself at last to attend to the claims of her inexorable duty, was tempted out of the depths of her sorrow to wish almost that the pleasure of meeting again with Basil Fothergill might have been denied her altogether. The pleasure had so quickly turned to pain, and Justina was already overburdened with that ache of the heart which is none the less sure because it is unseen and unshared. CHAPTER IV. To Justina's surprise and alarm when she arose the next morning, after a short rest of about three hours, in which neither good nor peaceful sleep had come to her. she found her husband had not returned home. This was an unusual occurrence, though there had been many times when Mr Seaton had not arrived at his proper destination till a very late, or perhaps it would l>e better to say a very early hour: he had hitherto never failed to make his appearance in the little home sustained and made so bright and comfortable by his wife’s unaided exertions. Rupert was a keen appreciator of his own comforts. and Justina’s efforts on this score were decidedly agreeable to him. Consequently he never failed to make every use of them. This last development made Justina uneasy and hurt her extremely. Not that his absence caused her regret from those feelings which reign, as a rule, in a wife’s heart, but because she feared every new move on Rupert’s part must be productive of fresh anxiety and pain to her. She swallowed a hasty breakfast and went back to her work with a tired head and a heavy heart. She had no cine to Rupert’s possible whereabouts. These men with whom he now associated never came in contact with her. She had only seen George Aynesworth once, ami she had conceived an extreme repugnance to the man. He was to her vulgar and something worse. The term adventurer seemed stamped all over him. She shrank from him and his bold, admiring eyes, as she would have shrunk away from any repugnant sight. Rupert had sneered at her for her coldness.

'You are so mighty grand. Justina!' he had said, when she had expressed her desire quietly, but emphatically, that Mr Aynesworth might never be brought into her presence again. ‘You give yourself the airs and graces of a queen, Heaven knows why; I don't. I confess I don't see what you have got to be so proud about. Your father was only’ a schoolmaster, and it is very evident from the way in which your mother’s people keep away from you that they considered him to be no better than he ought to have been.’ Rupert had paused here, expecting, perhaps, some retort from the quiet form that stood apart from him with averted face; then, seeing she would make no reply to his rude, cruel words, he went on peevishly: 'Well, it does not matter to me. and I mean to stick to him!’ an assertion he carried into steady practice from that dav forward.

justina had never questioned or endeavoured to find out in the smallest way what form of amusement her husband found so enjoyable in the company of his new friends. Had she been of a more suspicious nature or less harassed ami engrossed in her work, it is certain that one question must have forced itself upon the girl's mind, and that question one dictated by the plainest of common sense —the query, indeed, as to how and where Rupert had obtained the smart new clothes and many other little appurtenances which now surrounded him. and carried an air of either money spent or credit given. _ Justina. it is true, did observe that her husband appeared to be more particular than formerly in his dress, and his constant demand for small sums of money made her heave a sigh over his thoughtless extravagance in this respect; but after all. the girl knew absolutely nothing about the cost of those sort of things which seemed so dear to her husband's heart. She had never been brought in contact with smart tradesmen. or known what it was to wear splendid gowns, and so much that would have excited instantaneous suspicion in the mind of another escaped her notice altogether.

She settled down to her work on this particular morning with a sense of uneasiness which was not lightly shaken off, and was most detrimental to her labour. But work had to lie done, and habit so quickly grows into the likeness of nature that Justina found her pen and her thoughts flying on apace almost before she was well aware of it.

Eleven o'clock came and no sign of Rupert. She rose and moved about the room uncertainly. She could not help feeling alarmed, although a sort of bitter conviction within her told her surely' that no harm had befallen her husband, and that selfishness alone in some shape or form had kept him from returning home. While she was walking to and fro. troubled and very sad, a telegraph boy made his appearance at the narrow gate, and in another moment the message he carried was in Justina's hands.

It was from Rupert, and was a curt command with no kind of explanation whatever. ‘Pack portmanteau with my things, ami send to cloak-room Char-ing-cross by three sharp.’ It was signed ‘R.S.,’ and had been sent from a post-office in the Strand. Justina's pale, lovely face fiusntd hotly for an instant.

She dismissed the curious goodnatured lad with the words, ‘No answer. thank you.’ and then sat down by the table and read the telegram a second and a third time. ‘What did it mean? Where was Rupert? What did he intend to do? Was he going for some pleasure trip

for a few days or was his absence to be longer? Who were his companions? Where was his destination?' The girl's proud, sensitive heart was stung to the quick by this treatment. Her own nature was so warm, so generous, so full of gratitude, so full of honour, it was almost impossible to her to have to realise that any one. and more especially one wno owed so much at her hands, could act in so strange, so rude, and so inconsiderate a manner. There was, as has been said, no love in her heart for this man; but she had accepted him as her husband, she had grown to regard him as something that belonged to her. something for which site must work- a creature who depended upon her for the bread he ate and the shoes he wore upon his feet, and to have him go from her like this with no excuse, no explanation, no consideration in any shape or form, was most hurtful to her feelings, and to her sense of what was due to her as a woman and her position as his wife. She rose wearily enough after a little while and went to fulfil his command. Although she had no desire to do so. for she shrank from the possibility of his imagining that she wished to implire further into his movements, she dressed herself when the packing was completed and took the portmanteaux on a cab down to the station. She might perhaps have asked the servant of her lodgings to fulfil this task for her. but to do so would be to lay herself open to have all sorts of comment ami conjecture passed upon this strange proceeding of Rupert's, and Justina had a yearn-

ing in her pride to wrap up the truth of her loveless, miserable marriage as much as possible from the gaze of all eyes.

She was not long in reaehing t'haring-cross and deposited the luggage as directed; then she hurried back to her work and her home as quickly as the humble but not expeditious omnibus could take her. Her thoughts went to the night before as she did so, and even in the sadness of her thoughts, in the dread and nervous fear that Rupert's strange act had suddenly aroused within her. she could not refrain from a faint smile as she recalled the prosaic and damp situation in which her old friend had made himself known to her. As she alighted and made her way back to the lodgings, she rememliered, with a pang of annoyance and regret, that Rupert had in all probability occasioned Sir Basil mueh inconvenience by his non - appearance at luncheon as invited.

Tired as she was. Justina dragged herself onwards to a post-office,where she dispatched a telegram to Sir Basil briefly apologising for her husband’s

absence, and stating he had been compelled to leave town unexpectedly. This done, Justina made her way back to her writing, and without attempting to eat much or indulge in a rest, she worked steadily on for another two hours. She had come to a pause, and was sitting, pen in hand, gazing out of the window, when a ring at the bell roused her, and as she turned and rose from her chair, the door opened and Basil Fothergill was announced in a tone of considerable awe by the servant-maid. Justina clasped his hand warmly. 'This is really kind of you,’ she said, as he put down his hat and stick 'a proof of true friendship to journey out so far when you are in town for such a short time.’ ’I hope you will believe in the existence of my friendship without any sort or kind of proof,' Sir Basil said, with u smile on his lips for an

instant—a smile that did not linger, however, as he stood in front of the fireplace, very tall and distinguished looking, and let his eyes go about him in a casual way, taking in all the details of her humble home, but noting chiefest of all the tired pallor of her lovely face. ‘Thanks, very much, for sending me a wire,’ he went on, abruptly; ‘but it was not necessary, as your husband called on me early this morning, and explained that he would be unable to lunch.’

Justina’s hand that was resting idly on the back of her ehair grew suddenly cold and rigid with fear and dread, and pain of pride. ‘Oh! I did not know Rupert intended seeing you,’ she said, and at the tone in her voice he looked at her keenly. She roused herself with an effort. ‘Please sit down. Sir Basil, and then 1 will give you some tea.’ She rang the bell and stirred the fire as she spoke, and she tried hard to smile and seem at her ease; but it was a terrible effort, and without understanding it. entirely, he was yet aware of some emotion that was troubling her.

He had not the exact clue, though

the experience he had had of Rupert Seaton a few hours ago had let him see more clearly and surely in Justina’s sorrow ful young life" than she could have imagined it possible. ‘I always make my own tea,’ she said, forcing her lips to smile and move lightly. And all the while when the kettle was brought and the tea was made, and the pretty teacups set out on the snow - white embroidered cloth, tier heart was burning and aching with this last shame that she knew only too well her husband had put upon her. She had no need of words to tell her that Rupert had carried out the threat he had uttered the night before. and that the money that was being used to convey him, wherever he might be going, had come out of Basil Fothergill’s pocket, borrowed as a loan that was never meant to be repaid.

Sir Basil chatted away as briskly as he could. but he was conscious of a dull sort of hurt at his heart as he watched her thin, delicate hands move gracefully about and read the unmistakable weariness and trouble on her face. He was the kind of man who could not endure to know that any woman should have to toil and struggle and fight the world, and he never realised how stongly this feeling was impressed in him till he sat there looking at Justina and noting the undeniable traces of labour and anxiety and sorrow written legibly on her beautiful young face and form. He rose all at once and took the kettle from her hands. ‘Let me do this; you look worn out; have you been working all day? Must yon work like this. Justina? Is it so necessary?’

‘I promised faithfully to send this manuscript down to-night.’ she answered. evading the full meaning of his words. And then she laughed. ‘How well you manage a kettle! Do you often make tea. Basil?’

‘Very often.' he assured her gravely. ‘for Molly hates all that sort of thing.’

He took up his cup and drank his tea quickly. ‘When will you come and pay us a visit at Croome, Justina?’ She smiled. ‘I must give you the children’s answer—one of these fine days.' ‘I am not a child, and that does not satisfy me.’ 'I should like to spend a little while with you." the girl said, gently, ‘but 1 fear—' She paused. ‘I think I could not make you any definite promise, Basil; T am not quite a free person.’ He put his cup down in front of the fire. ‘When does your husband intend to return from Paris?' he queried, abruptly. Justina gave a start. ‘Paris!’ she repeated, involuntarily, and then she paused, while the hot colour stole into her cheeks. Sir Basil watched her a moment

in silence. He understood better than words could have told him that this was the first intimation she had had of her husband’s whereabouts. He honoured her for her proud reserve, but he had a deeper sensation of that dull pain at his heart, and a great yearning came over him to put his strong arms about this girl and carry her off to his country home, to his sister’s genial care, to keep and hold her there for all time. His anger and dislike towards Seaton grew unbounded in this moment, and he had a pang at his heart when he recalled the memory of that dead father who had worshipped and guarded his child in those bygone years as a treasure too great for earthly appreciation.

If Richard North could have stood where he stood now and gazed as he gazed upon that slender toil-worn, grief-laden and delicately lovely girl, the heart of the father must have broken beneath the anguish of realising his daughter’s cruel fate.

Basil roused himself to talk as unconcernedly and as lightly as he could. Until she herself allowed him to mingle in with her trouble he would

not venture to intrude upon it, but he registered a vow that come what might he would range himself henceforth in the background of her life as her true, her faithful friend, her protector even if meed be. He had no exact knowledge of the real truth touching her marriage, but he could guess pretty nearly at that, truth, and a single glance at Rupert Seaton's fair, evil face that morning had been enough to assure him that the qualities and characteristics that had made the boy so detestable were but too surely pronounced in the man whose lot it was to call Justina wife. ‘T feel we are indeed old, old friends,’ the girl said when Sir Basil rose to go finally. ‘lt seems almost as if we had never lawn parted—ns if we were back again in the dear old recdory garden, and by-nnd-by we should go across the lawn and meet daddy coming to look for us.’

lie held her small baud for a long moment. There were tears in her eyes and in her voice. He pretended not to see them.

•May 1 come again before I go? 1 am not returning for another few days. Thank you, Justina, dear, You are very kind to let me be so privileged, flood-bye for to-day then. Don’t work so hard if you can help it. Your little hand must be quite tired out. (lood-bye, dear.’ Sir Basil dropped her hand and was turning away when he looked back. ‘You have my address. Send for me, Justina,’ he said, abruptly, ‘if you should find yourself in need of a friend.’ The words were almost strange, but they came from him involuntarily, urged by a sudden presentiment that there was a moment close at hand when she would need his friendship and his protection.

Perhaps the same feeling had made its way into Justina’s heart. Anyway she showed no surprise at his words, and instead she had a touch of comfort in remembering them when he was gone. She little imagined, however. as she drew a chair up to the fire and sat staring wearily and with a. sick heart into the glowing coals how speedily she would make tangi\»e and definite test of this promised friendship. CHAPTER V. Basil Fothergill extended his stay in town another week, thereby causing nnich surprise and a little alarm to his sister, who awaited his return in his large, comfortable country house. He saw Justina. three times during that week, ami each visit he paid to the girl, left alone in her humble lodging home, caused him more anxious thought about her, more regret for the unhappy fate that had come to the beloved child of his old tutor and valued friend. No mention whatever was made by either of them of Rupert Seaton during these interviews. They talked of all sorts and kinds of things, of Jus-

tina’s work, of her ambitions, of her successes achieved in one sense so quickly; but the conversation, however started, generally terminated in remembrances and discussions of those old days when first they hail become acquainted, and learned so soon to know and trust in one another.

Sir Basil’s big, honest, manly heart was ablaze with anger and indignation against the creature who had won th.s girl for his wife and showed so little appreciation of the treasure that was his, so little evidence of a man’s natuie or spirit in his selfish neglect and worse than contemptible conduct. What used to make the girl’s shadowed young life still more miserable, he could find no good or encouraging word to say of Rupert Seaton; therefore it was best to leave the matter untouched. He had no need of words to tell him Justina possessed a spirit of pride stronger than iron itself. The pain and hurt caused by her husband’s neglect and unworthiness were written clearly in her sweet eyes and ab.mt her sad, young lips. Basil Fothergill felt that for himself Justina had the deepest, the sincerest friendship, and that perhaps it would be to him she would turn most naturally and easily, did the occasion arise, when she had need of another's aid and support. Each time they met they seemed, paradoxically, to progress farther as they went back ward. The nearer they grew to the past—to that old ‘camaraderie’ (which had lived in the man’s memory with such vivid touches of pleasure and prettiness through the long ten years of separation that had stretched between those old days and the present), the more surely he felt that their friendship was true and well founded, that the girl found a solace and pleasure and a sense of hope in his existence. Still, though the bond of their old affection had been revived clearly and surely, there was a great difference in its possibilities and certainties now. They were children no longer, and the world lav around and about them a hard, bitter, cynical, disappointing

world, as far removed from the peace and charm of that old rectory garden as the earth was removed from the stars.

But though he said nothing of Rupert, Basil Pothergill could not prevent himself from passing a very harsh criticism on Justina's other relations, on her uncle Paul North and his wife, on Margaret Lady Sartoris—her mother's eldest sister—and on the oilier members of that mother's family. Jmlina defended them all from his sweeping attack.

‘You must remember I have no one to blame but myself,' she said, with the faintest of faint smiles lighting up her magnificent blue eyes. ‘1 behaved like a foolish, naughty child, and I must accept the consequences of my disobedience.’ ‘That may be very well as far as Dr. North is concerned, though 1 don't see that he is exonerated in the least from failing shamefully to do his duty,' Sir Basil said, gruffly, as he stood in his favourite position in front of the fire and stared down on the girl’s serious, delicate loveliness, ‘but it makes no excuse whatever for your aunt. Lady Sartoris—l only hope I shall run across her one of these days. 1 shall most unhesitatingly give her the benefit of my opinion of her.'

‘Please don’t. Basil.’ .Justina broke in very hurriedly. ‘I want nothing from Aunt Margaret—absolutely nothing. \Ve are. after all. little more than strangers to each other. My mother’s people, as you know, never honoured us with much remembrance in the old days, and since I '

She paused imperceptibly, and hurried her next words. ‘And since T have taken to literature T fancy I have fallen a little lower in Aunt Margaret’s estimation than formerly. She does not approve of women being independent or attempting to earn their daily bread. She had heard that T have to scamper about in all sorts of dingy dens and editorial offices, and she is frightfully shocked in consequence. T shall never forget.’ Justina finished, laughing a little.

though the laugh was not merry. ‘I shall never forget Aunt Margaret’s horror one afternoon when her carriage was stopped in a block in Piccaddly, and on the omnibus just in front of her sat myself, neither a smart nor agreeable sight for Lady Sartoris, I can assure you, although the world in which she lives and moves and has her being has no suspicion that she possesses any such discreditable relation as I am.' Basil Fothergill frowned and coloured. ‘Don't try to run yourself down, Justina.' he said, quite sharply. She made some laughing answer, aml there was silence between them for a moment or two. It was Justina who broke it. ‘1 have often wondered how on earth you came to be my companion on that omnibus that very wet night ?' Basil did not answer immediately. ‘l’pon my soul, do you know?’ he said, when he did speak. ‘1 don't understand. either, how 1 came to be there. I had just turned out of ('haring Cross Station, and had every intention of taking a cab, when your omnibus stopped in front of me. and something, 1 cannot explain what—a species of magnetic force, I suppose—induced me to climb up the staircase and share your solitude. I have never been so grateful to anything in my life. Justina. as T have been to that invisible magnetism that drove me into your life once again.' Justina smiled and coloured a little. ‘Dear Basil, you will make me so vain.’ she said, lightly. ‘You put too high a value on my poor little friendship, 1 am afraid.' ‘Perhaps I do.' he answered her, and then he turned and stirred the fire. ‘Molly is coming up to town.' he said abruptly, as this was done. ‘She has taken it into her head there must be something the matter with me as 1 am staying so long in town, so she had determined to come “right away.” as the Yankees say, and see what is keeping me. You will like Molly. 1 know,' he went on quickly before she

could say anything’. ‘She is a dear, jolly, lovable little soul, as bright as a sunbeam and almost as pretty. She arrives at five this afternoon. Will you eome and have some dinner with us to-night, .lustina? Do; it will Im? so nice, and will do you good.' But .lustina shook her head.

•| should love it,* she said, regretfully, ‘ami ehiefest of all, 1 should love to see Molly; but perhaps I shall have another chance. I'o-night is an absolute impossibility. I have at least four good hours' work be I ore me. This serial is to start next week. You are not a literary person, or you would know what that means. lam sorry to disappoint you, dear Basil, but 1 know you will forgive me, won’t you?' ‘lt would have to be a very big thing that would make me refuse to forgive you anything, Justina,’ he said, lightly, yet seriously, and then after a little more conversation he went a wav.

.lustina sent many warm, heartfelt thoughts of gratitude after him. when she was alone, and then with a sigh she took up her pen. She would have enjoyed an evening spent in such pleasant fashion, but pleasures were so evidently not for her—work and the grim. hard, stern side of life was her portion: and the sooner she realised that in all its completeness ano fail power, the better it would ne for her and her writing. She was glad to be at vioik, too. f<r Ihe reason that when she was \«*iv busy thoughts did not come so quickly. She had ceased to speculate as what Rupert might or might not be doing: she ceased also to feel indignation at his silence, but the fears, the doubts, the uneasiness that this last act of his had awakened withi n he”, were by no means gone. She felt nervous and unprepared for the future; she did not know what to plan, what to hope while he had remained content in his selfish idleness. At home the prospect, though cheerful, had been moderately clear and straight: now this had gone from her. She had to live in a state of uncertainty. in a suspense that was full of vague fear and apprehension for what 1 he future might bring forth. She wrote steadily on after Sir Basil had gone. If sometimes the contrast between this man and Rupert lose forcibly before her, the girl courageously crushed the feeling back. She had nothing in her heart for Basil Fothergill but honest admiration, sincere and grateful affection. Sanity, coquetry, or any of the many weaknesses so natural to a woman, young ami beautiful as she was, had no hold with Justina.

Her childhood in the first place her early training, her simple, refined, proud nature in the second, and tier hard, troubled life in the third, had made of Justina an altogether unusual woman—a woman free from all the vanities and prettinesses and frivolities which are the world’s decorations to the feminine sex. Basil Fothergill's interest in her had therefore no other translation in Justina's eyes than the outcome of a rc:d, true friendship, and though she h:»d commenced too early in life to know what the meaning of Lioour and trouble, ami anxiety was in its bitterest sense, where worldly knowledge* ami sophistry and cynicism were concerned. she was yet a very infant. She was conscious of her husband's unworthiness. His idleness and selfishness and lack of pride hurt her intensely, but deeper than this she had never dived, and the full baseness <f Rupert Seaton’s nature was something that would have been as incomprehensible as it would have been terrible foi Justina to grasp. As evening drew on the servant maid brought in some food for Mrs Seaton. Justina had no appetite, but she forced herself to eat because otherwise she would never have had strength to go through what was necessary.

Since Rupert's departure the food had been of the simplest and barest description, except for some magnificent fruit which, together with a box of lovely flowers, had been sent up from the West Eml at Sir Basil Fothergill's orders. The sight of those splendid grapes and those delicate blossoms was almost incongruous when contrasted with the humble meal that Justina honoured bv flu* name of dinner. She ate the fruit with real pleasure, ami sat for a little while contemplating afterwards the colour of the Howers and drinking in their scent before going on with her work.

The postman’s sharp rap at the door was lire next break in her thoughts. Justina’s busy pen came to a standstill. She diu not exactly know why, but she had all at once a presentiment tiiai something important was about to happen to her. When the maid brought her in a letter, she knew before she received it that at last she was to have some news front Rupert. I'he writing was not his.

Justina’s hand shook unconsciously as she opened the letter. It was from this 111:111 George Aynesworth. A curt, rough, and almost cruel letter. Evidently there had been a quarrel, and this man was as bitter against Rupert as he had only a little while ago been so friendly.

Aynesworth’s like or dislike was not what affected Justina. It was one paragraph in the letter that froze the blood about her heart, and made her eyes and senses grow dim for a moment. 'l’he meaning of the words gave her such acute pain that in the first comprehension of them she felt too weak to make jiny movement to stir from beneath the weight of horror and shame that had fallen upon her. Aynesworth wrote that Rupert had behaved to him in some discreditable fashion. ’lie is now in London. No doubt he is with you, so kindly inform him that the cheque he gave me for £l,OOO drawn to himself from Sir Basil Fothergill will be presented immediately, and as the forgery’ is altogether too clumsy' and poor to be passed at the bank for a single instant, he had better prepare himself for a nice, long residence in one of Her Majesty’s prisons, where his talents will be confined to a class of work I don’t fancy will be much to his taste. He di«l a bad day’s work fox - himself when he made an enemy of me. and if he gets out of this scrape—well. I can wait my’ time. 1 will be even with my’ fine Mr Rupert Seaton sooner ox- later.’ Then without any courtesy whatever the lettex- ended, and Justina was left staring down at it as she might have stared at some horrible and venomous reptile, whose very’ presence destroyed hope and vigour of life within her.

She made no moan or cry; she only sat there, turned in her youth and white loveliness into a figure of stone. She shivered several times as she sat, but it was long before the sensation of life flowed once again in her veins. It was st sound from without that roused her at last —a sound of a cab stopping ami then of footsteps on the path. Justina rose suddenly and stood trembling in every limb, her weak, cold hands closed over that horrible letter as the door was thrown open and her husband, Rupert Seaton, sauntered in. CHAPTER VI. Basil Fothergill was an extremely’ early riser. No matter at what hour he retired to rest the night betore, he was always up and about the next morning long.before the clock chimed eight. Early as he was, however, there was another who was earlier yet than himself. He had scarcely finished his toilet, his mind deeply occupied with thoughts of Justina all the time, when his valet entered his room and gave him a little pencilled note. In an instant, as he read it, Sir Basil’s face flushed crimson. Something had happened to bring hex- to him, ami at such an hour. Something of a sad, troubled nature, of course—a new sorrow. He hade his man, in hurried words, escort the lady up to his private sit-ting-room. ’Tell Miss Fothergill 1 am engaged on business.’ he said, as he stood for a moment pausing before the closed door. Justina was standing by the fire. He could not see her face; she wore a thick veil. He put out his hand heartily.aml he noticed, with a sort of pang, that she shrank from him. ’Before you offer to give me or let me take your hand,’ she said, in a voice that was cold, hard ami stern, the voice of a creature suffering an anguish of pain—not the soft music of that voice whose tones were haunting his ears so perpetually—‘before you do this, hear what I am.’ He went up to her gently, tenderly, ami took the hands Hutt hung by her sides. ’lto 1 not know what you are?’ he saiil swiftly, ‘my friend, the child of my dear, honoured friend, a woman I respect with my very heart and soul.’

She let her hands rest in his; he felt chilled by the eoldness, and the nervous thrill that ran throughout her slender frame. His kindness seemed to hurt her.

She gave a little moan. ‘Oh, Basil!’ she said, brokenly. ‘Oh, Basil, 1 think my heart will break!’ He bit his lip suddenly, and his hands closed unconsciously for an instant on her small ones. He did not know until now what the true meaning of the past fortnight had been to him. He controlled himself by a great effort. "Tell me your sorrow, Justina; turn to me as you would to a brother.’ She paused a moment and her beautiful head was bowed a little when she spoke. •\Ve are dishonoured—there is a shame upon us that nothing will ever wipe out.’ She had to break off in her speech. ‘My husband is a forger.’ Again she paused. ‘And you are his victim. Stop—do not speak; let me tell you all!’ Feverishly, in a hot, exigex - way, she tried to pour out the whole story, but her strength failed her. She drew her hand from his and sought for the letter she carried. ‘That will tell you all,’ she said, ami she turned away ami walked «o tlye window. Sir Basil read the letter through twice: he said some bitter, strong words between his closed teeth as he did so. Into what a nest of vileness, of blackguardism had this poor, beautiful child fallen? Before he could speak Justina had turned. ‘Oh. Basil! I never thought to beg from anyone, but—l will work—l will slave. Every’ farthing of this money I will give back to you. Oh! only help me now, only’ ’ She broke off abruptly’ as she saw his face. The eloquence of his heart was written on it. •Forgive me! forgive me!’ she faltered. and then she sat down and buried her face in her hands. He could not speak for a moment: the pain was too great; then he moved slowly across to her and put his hand on hex’ shoulder. ‘That you shoulxl have found it necessary’ to beg to me, child! Little Just, friend of my boyhood, the world is treating you very' hardly. Your cup of sorrow is far too full. It is natural you should doubt and fear ami grow flightened of all; but listen to me. dear. I am your friend always; you can trust me to the death. Turn to me whatever comes, Justina: you shall not find I change or fail! She lifted hex - head suddenly and drew his hand to her lips. ‘Your friendship is all I have. Basil,’ she said, and then the tension broke and the tears came. He stood there motionless fox - a time. He made no effort to soothe or check her weeping; rather was he glad to see it—glad, that is. in the face of tin l terrible circumstances that surrounded her. He moved away after a few moments and walked to and fro quietly. Never in the whole course of his career had he passed through greater mental suffering than that which came to him now. It was no* only the pain of seeing hex’ bowed beneath this last and wors‘ sorrow that contracted his heart: it was a pain that, despite his strong, noble, unselfish nature, forced itself into being in this sad moment. Nature is too powerful for all of us, however big we may be, and Basil Fothergill’s love for Justina Seaton was too great, too real, too absolute to be crushed down by any amount of moral ethics or conventional platitudes. He loved her with all his heart and soul, and life. He called himself her friend, but he was more than a thousand friends: be loved her. and he vearned ovex - her in her youth and her desolation as a mother yearns over her child.

It was the feeling that be must always be negative in her life, must always stand aloof and do no'hi-g tn

save or protect her, no matter how rough the storm, how hard the fight, that hurt him most.

1 he memory that she belonged to another was a keen agony, ihe consciousness of the absolute vilene s of that other made him clench his minds and set his teeth so that he might control the poweiful temptation Unit swept ovex' him, the temp.ation to set Ins heel on this cowardly brute and liberate the girl once and tor all from her bondage. 1 i.e goouiiess of this man was something divine to her, sunk as sue was i.i so much that was ignoble and bad. She had known he would help her before she had gone to him. but she had not known that he would- give her such overwhelming evidence of his strong, noble nature. Basil treated hex’ in the wises fashion. ‘You will share my breakfast, Justina,’ he said, and he rang the bell as he spoke. ‘Molly is a lazy little kitten, and never gets up till she is absolutely obliged.’ Justina tried to falter an excuse. ‘I must get back. I—l have much to do.’ ‘The more reason you should eat. I am very hungry, and I am sure you must be the same. At any rate, a cup of coffee will not come amiss.’ He chatted on as lightly as lit' could. The breakfast was quickly brought, and he poured out the coffee and waited on her with all the care and attention of a woman. He made a great pretence of eating himself, but he swallowed very little. ‘I am going to take you home.’ he said, when a few minutes had gone. Justina shrank a little. She eould not endure the thought of Rupert and this man meeting. Basil’s nobility, his generosity, set forth hex' husband's wrong in far blacker and more despicable lines. The remembrance of the last night’s scene was so vividly with her. Rupert's bravado and swaggering ease till she gave him the leltex- to read, then his exhibition of fear, his utter cowardice, his supplications to hex- to help him. to save him, to keep him from the horrors of a prison! Justina shivered as she remembered it all. It had been Rupert and Rupert's agony of fear that had broken down the proud horror with which she was wrapped about. ‘Go to Basil Fothergill. He will refuse you nothing. Tell him I xepen‘. Tell him I will work day and night till I have paid him back. Ask him foxheaven’s sake to be merciful. If I gj to prison 1 shall die, Justina. I shall never live a week. He will listen to you. Justina: he is your friend. Go to him. Go to him!’ This had been the frenzied exy of the coward. Rupert hail flung himself at his wife's feet, and grovelled o:i the ground before her; he had wept and wailed, and almost roused the house by his fear. Justina had not a dear recollection of how she subdued him. She did it at last. ami she used every means to soothe him. and finally she had succeeded: and while she sat staring with hot. tearless eyes into the dead fire, and on to the desolation and destruction of her life, the man who had dragged her to shame and dishonour lay sleeping soundly and sweetly in the next room. Her natural refinement, her pride, her delicacy of thought, winced at the bare idea of seeing the two men together; but she realised, poor child, that life for hex- was not to be set in any fashion that was pleasant to her or that her pride demanded: so afler that one moment of drawing back, she made no protest. If he desired to go with her he should go. Basil understood most perfectly all that was passing in the girl's mind. He put on his eoat ami hat. and. after exchanging a few hurried explanatory words with his sister, who naturally did not understand exactly what was hannening. he took Justina down the stairs, and. hailing a hansom, they were driven swiftly away back to the miserable place she called hex- ho "C

At a few away from her door, however, Basil stopped. ‘I will leave you now, dear,’ he said, gently, and he helped her to alight. They had not exchanged a single word during the drive. •You are tired and would be best by yourself. This afternoon Molly wid come and pay you a visit. If you are well enough you will see her; if not. another time. Keep up your heart. Justina. Courage, near; life cannot always be so dark and sad. Anyhow, remember, whatever comes, I am your true—your loyal friend.’ He wrung her hand and held it for an instant within his, then, turning abruptly, he jumped into the hansom again, ami before she could scarcely realise it he was driven rapidly away. Sick ami trembling from the agitation, the emotions this eventful morning had brought her. Justina went slowly back to her home. The room was empty when she entered. She was glad of the respite. She dreaded the very' thought of

Hu pert. She had no definite plan, only she felt she could not endure to go onliving in the fashion they had been living these past months. With the shadow of this shame hanging perpetually over them. Justina did not know what life would be like in the future. Only they must go from here; they must reduce their expenses. She must work even harder than she had done. Rupert must also do his share of the work. She woidd not be able to breathe or move freely till this debt had been wiped off. ft was almost too great to be realised—it woidd take years of hard labour and economy to reduce it. but it must be done—it must be reduced. The shame would never go. but the debt must be paid. She sat there thinking and thinking in a dull, half stupid way. and she never moved when the door opened and the landlady came in. ‘Come, my dear, rouse yourself,’ the woman said, with genuine pity and sympathy in her voice. ‘T know it ain’t easy to bear partings; but there. America ain’t no distance nowadays, and Mr Seaton, he’ll be back afore you know where you are.’

Justina sat looking at the woman in a dull, set way. The landlady meandered on; evidently she imagined the girl was grief stricken for her husband’s departure. Suddenly Justina found her voice. ‘What—what are you saying?" she said, hoarsely, feebly.

The woman explained again her sympathy and pity. Rupert had managed to deceive her quite easily. ‘When he told me he had sent yon out so as you should have no farewells — I knew what it woidd be when von came back, that I did. Come, now. Mrs Seaton, look up —your good man will be back this side of Christmas. I’ll be bound. Let me help you off with your cloak, my dear, and let me give you a good, strong cup of tea.’ Justina pushed herself on her feet somehow.

‘Rupert gone! Rupert gone!’ that was the thought that oppressed her. She stood looking about her uncertainly. and then her eyes caught sight of a letter standing on the mantelshelf. propped up in front of the clock. Iler senses came back to her in a feeble way. She managed to dismiss the landlady.

”>es —yes —l will have tea,’ she slid, eager only to be alone and getting rid of the woman’s officious though wellmeant kindness at any cost.

As the door closed she crossed the room and took up the letter. The faintness was still in her head and frame, but her mind was perfectly clear now. With cold, trembling bands she broke the envelope. Rupert had written evidently in a great hurry. Justina. good-bye! I am not coming back. I am tired of the sort of life I have lieen condemned to lead with you for the last year. Our marriage was a mistake. T am sorry for you. and I am very sorry for myself. I don’t suppose we shall trouble one another much more in the future. 1 have got a good start now. and I mean to make the most of it. J have no scruple in leaving you to take care of yourself, for you are quite able to do this, and if you stick to your work you can never starve. T have taken a few odds and ends just to help me on my journey, and I have enough money to keep me going for a little while, thanks to my clever acting. Aynesworth’s clever letter, and your exertions on my behalf. Once more, good-bye.’

She stood there frozen into a statue as she read these words. The infamy, the brutal shame and cruelty of it was more than she could bear." To dishonour her first, then to trick her by his confederate’s aid and his own cunning into being an accomplice to his crime; to grovel at her feet as a eoward. ami at last to force her by his tears to do that which was bitter as death itself to her; to wait till she was gone forth on this errand of humiliation and mental pain, and then to desert her and to carry off with him the money he had stolen from the one, the only friend she possessed in the world!

With a cry that was scarcely human, so terrible was the anguish at her heart, the poor creature flung the letter far from her into the heart of the burning coals, and then, as the door opened and the landlady came back once more, Justina turned with a sob and a moan; she staggered backward, and before the woman could reach her she was lying senseless on the floor. (To be continued.)