A Woman's Heart

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXII, Issue XVIII, 6 May 1899, Page 591

A Woman's Heart

By

MRS EFFIE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS.

CHAPTER XIV. It was speedily rumoured about the village that Lord Dunehester was going to entertain a small party at his rather tumble-down, old country house, and that a certain amount of fresh festivities for the Croomehurst young folk might reasonably be expected. Beatrice Somerset was enchanted at this news. She cantered across the common one morning about three days after Miss Greatorex’s visit to Croome Hall, on purpose to entice Leam out for a ride, if possible, and then to chatter and comment on what kind of entertainment Lord Dunehester would give them. Leam was writing in her own small sitting-room when Miss Somerset was announced. She looked very handsome -in her morning gown of serge, with silver belt about her shapely waist and neat linen collar and cuffs at throat and wrist. She possessed very beautiful hands—not small, but well-shaped and of an exquisite whiteness.

Beatrice often declared laughingly, and yet with sincerity, that Leam would have inspired the dignity and respect she always received if nothing had been seen of her but those beautiful. white hands. She declined to ride with Miss Somerset, but not ungraciously. ‘I am going with the Fothergills to the Dunstanley meet to-morrow, and I want to be quite fresh for that,’ she explained. ‘ls Molly going, too? How jolly!’ Bee Somerset exclaimed. "It is such an age since we had a good day’s hunting with Molly. I suppose Mrs Seaton must be much stronger, then. Leam.’

Miss Greatorex frowned almost imperceptibly. ‘Between you and me.’ she observed, as she sat. down again to her writingtable and moved her hands about among her papers. ’I don’t fancy there has been so very much the matter with Mrs Seaton. I saw her the other day; she looked remarkably well. I thought.’ ‘Oh! did you see her, Leam? I have been longing to know’ what you would say about her. Isn’t, she lovely?’ There was not much discriminating capacity in Beatrice; at least there had been no necessity’ for developing it as yet. She was so simple and so fresh and so young that she had no knowledge of the art of dissembling, and though, of course, she was conscious of broad effects, such as pleasure and sadness, still the subtler, the less-de-tined emotions which thronged the breast of a woman like Leam Greatorex were quite unrevealed to her. The sneer, therefore, that had lain lightly on Leam’s words as she spoke of Justina. was quite lost on Beatrice. ‘ls she not lovely?’ she inquired, with warmest enthusiasm. ‘I have never seen any one so beautiful as Mrs Seaton.’ . ‘You have not seen very much, you must remember, my little Bee!’ Leam said, with an effort at playfulness, yet with that faint bitterness clinging to her voice. ‘No, of course not.’ Miss Somerset agreed. She had seated herself edgewise on a chair, and was beating her habit skirt lightly’ with her whip. ‘Still, after all. there are others who have been nearly all round the world, and they think as 1 do about Mrs Seaton. Papa declares she is a revelation to him, and Dr. Wyllie says she reminds him of some wonderful Greekhead of some very long time ago. and Sir Basil— ’ Leam’s hands moved sharply for an instant, as though jerked by an unseen force; then they were still, and she was smiling. ‘Well, and what does Sir Basil say. eh? Miss Somerset laughed. ’Well, to tell the truth. I don’t know what Sir Basil says about Mrs Seaton's beauty; but 1 think I do know what he thinks. When I was there yesterday I could not help noticing how he looked nt her whenever she spoke or moved; and. do you know, Leam, she did look a dream yesterday. She is so very slight, and she looks so delicate, her

face is like a beautiful flower, and, oh! her eyes. I simply cannot take my eyes away- from them; they seem to magnetize me!’ Leant looked back in her chair. ‘Well. I think the sooner Mrs Seaton takes her departure the better, if she is going to have such a wonderful effect as this on our little busy Bee,’ she laughed, but not very heartily. ‘Oh! she is going very soon; she told me so yesterday’.’ ‘ls she going to rejoin her husband, or is he coming down to take her away?' Leam made this inquiry in a languid tone of voice. ‘Oh! I don’t know anything about her husband; I have never heard his name mentioned. T have not thought much about him either. She does not seem a bit like a married woman, she is so young. Why, she looks quite as young as any of the girls here.’ ‘Have you got any news. Bee?’ Leam asked, in a cold, listless sort of way. She was annoyed beyond measure by all this eulogy of the guest up at Croome Hall. She determined to put a stop to it without any hesitation. ‘I came to you to know if you could tell me anything. Have you heard, Leam, is Lord Dunehester going to give a ball? You know, of course, his visitors have arrived already.’ ‘A ball!’ echoed Miss Greatorex. ’Poor man. T should think it will he quite as much as he can do to pay’ his bread bill. You know he is a pauper. Bee.’ •He is very nice!’ remarked Miss Somerset, ‘and I call him handsome, too. I hope he will give a dance, Leam.’ ‘What a baby you are. Bee!’ In fact it was useless to get cross or to indulge in sneers or sarcasm with Beatrice Somerset; she understood nothing but the bright and pretty and pleasant side of life. She was a veritable child, a ‘sunbeam,’ as Jasper Wyllie had christened her, in his heart; but for all that she was by no means sold less, or the featherheaded. unintellectual creature that Leam half contemptuously classed her sometimes in her thoughts. ‘I hope I shall be a baby’ a long, long time,’ she cried, rising laughingly from her chair. ‘Now’ I must be off, Leam; I have disturbed you for nothing; we shall meet to-morrow at Dunstanley, and I hope we shall have one of our old. magnificent runs. And I am glad Molly is coming; it will be like old times; for although I do like and admire Mrs Seaton so immensely’, things have not been at all like they used to be since she has been at Croome.'

She kissed Miss Greatorex lightly, and danced as lightly out of the room. Leam went to the window to watch her mount and canter past. As the pretty vision flashed by, Leam moved back to her seat at her writing table; her brow was clouded, and her mouth looked hard and set. She had passed through many- uncomfortable moments in the past three days, and she was now in a curiously’ restless, and yet at the same time sullen mood. Those faint, vague thoughts that had flitted like phantoms across heV brain in the past had incorporated themselves during the days that had just gone into a purpose, a determination. a desire, and an ambition that was little less than a passion. To be Basil Fothergill’s wife, to reign as mistress of his home and his position, to demonstrate to her grandmother the fact of this social success, to set aside the question of her future and to emerge from her present chrysalis state in the full splendour of a marriage with such a man as Basil Fothergill. Leam hardly knew herself in her new guise. She was or had been so used to meet all the moves in life with a calmness of frigidity, that this storm of emotion that had suddenly rushed over her unnerved her and aroused her anger against herself.

Yet she was true to herself; she was not the woman she had been; one glance at Justina Seaton’s beauty, one glance at Basil Fothergill’s face when in the presence of that beauty, had metamorphosed her

whole self, had changed her very self of selves, as it were. The burning fire of jealousy ran hotly through her veins. The restless fever of love, an unknown sensation to her, now moved her every impulse. She hud lost her proud, cold quiescence; she dared not let herself imagine a future w’ithout those things that had shaped themselves into a passionate desire. To lie Basil Fothergill's wife! The very words, if whispered to herself, brought a thrill to her heart, set her pulses beating high, and yet she knew so well that her path would be no easy one. The man she determined to win was not free to be won as he once was; it would be a long, hard struggle, perhaps. but still she would not falter. The goal for which she worked was a great one; she would not let herself l>e discouraged even by so formidable an obstacle as the fact, undoubted and impossible to be set on one side, of the living existence of another woman whom Basil Fothergill loved with all the force anil truth and fidelity of his manhood's heart. No, she would not be discouraged after all; her rival, beautiful as she wqs. was not a free woman. Why, then, should Leam fear her? Why not put her aside once and forever with the contempt she deserved? Lord Dunehester lost no time in coming over to Croome Hall to consult Molly on the question of the entertainment he should offer to the inhabitants of Croomehurst. The day’ he called happened, unfortunately for his plans, to be the day of the Dunstanley meet. Molly, at Justina's eager request, finally agreed to go with Basil to this meet, but she hail gone under much protest. 'ion will be so dull. I don't want to go.' she had declared, and J ustina had answered with a touch of imperativeness that enhanced her loveliness : ‘You shall go; Basil wants you, and as for me. I want you out of the way. I am going to have a long day at my work.’ ‘lmpertinent!' Molly cried, laughingly; but her bright face clouded over at the mention of this work. Despite her brave attack on Basil, despite her brave determination to do nothing to stand in the way of Justina's plans, Molly found her position a very hard one to carry out. and as the time passed and she felt the moment draw nearer and nearer for Justina to announce her departure. Molly's heart grew sadder and sadder. If she had not learned to love Justina for her own sweet sake, there Was the fact that Basil loved this girl, and that gave her a place in Molly’s heart, apart from anything else. But with her own love added to all the rest, the future was indeed a bitter and hard one to have to face.

Justina, knowing nothing of the struggle going on in Molly's mind, was eager to get once again to her work. She shrank from the thought of leaving her friends, and even more still of the pain she must give them by going, but what else lay before her? Her strength was returning slowly, and as vigour crept back into her frame, so came also the yearning desire to get to her task to try and work off that mountain of dishonourable debt which Rupert’s cruel shame had left on her shoulders. She watched Molly go this day with a smile and a sigh. ‘Only a few days more,’ she said to herself, as she was alone in the quaint, pretty drawing-room. She had unpacked the volume of her old manuscript, and it lay before her in a great pile on the table Molly had spread for her use. ‘lt will be hard to go, and yet 1 must —I must.’ She sat for a long time thinking, her face shaded by her hand. She winced even in her thoughts as remembrance of her husband's last cruel act, his desertion of her and the inethpd of that desertion returned to her mind. She shivered as she realised what a

terrible, miserable trial must, have Iteen hers if her long illness had been endured alone unaided by Basil anil his sister. There had come into Justina's heart a great horror, a greater contempt for the man she called her husband. To know he was gone out of her life, out of all chance of daily contact- with her. was in itself a relief that hail something of joy in it, and yet beyond this relief there lurked a nervous fear. She dreaded she knew not what; she was only certain that fear of Riqiert anil his future actions must be with her all the time. The words Lord Dunehester had spoken the night he had dined at Croome about, the man St. Leger had awakened this fear in all its fullness. There was nothing to connect her husband with this chance companion the young Earl had met in Paris. On the face of it it was highly improbable Rupert would have remained in Paris, or, indeed, anywhere so close to England, having always the possibility of being traced and discovered, either by her or through her, so clearly before him; and yet, despite this, Justina's heart had given a painful throb of fear ami dread when Lord Dunehester had, in a few light words, sketched out a sort of picture ot the man whom he called by the name of St. Leger. The picture was one that fitted exactly to the character of Rupert Seaton, or to any one of the type of men with whom he had been so intimate the past year. Justina grew cold as she let her imagination conjure up all the possibilities of mental anguish that thought and knowledge of her husband's nature aroucsed so easily. Should she ever know a day’s real peace? While he was with her it had been bad enough, but with him gone from her, out of reach of her influence, thrown into a section of the world that would encourage and help him in the cultivation of his viciousness and dishonourable dealings, who •ould say what further shame might not yet come uipon her through him? Big, hot tears rolled down the girl's pale cheeks as she sat there thinking. ‘lf it were all over and done with,' she saiil to herself, wearily. In such a moment as this all the pleasure, the real happiness broughi to her through the sweet, true friendship she possessed, seemed to vanish altogether; she remembered nothing but her troubles. ‘And 1 must meet Aunt Margaret and submit to her questioning ami her probings and her criticism. Oh! that will be even harder to bear than all,’ she added, after a little while. Work was not easy to her in this mood. She left the table and moved about the room to distract her thoughts. She found herself gazing aimlessly and mechanically at, all Molly's treasures, ami at last, when she awoke out of the curious, blurred mental phase into which her brain often fell after excessive working or too great a strain of anxiety, she found herself standing looking down on a big portrait of Leam Greatorex in all the panoply of her court garments. A picture of a regal, handsome, queenly young woman whose magnificence nevertheless gave a sudden chill sensation to Justina's quivering and deeply moved heart. ‘And for her there will be happiness, the- truest, sweetest, happiness a woman could ever hope to know in this world. No shame, no dishonour, no desertion; wife to a. man who has the heart of a king, the soul of an angel. Oh! I envy you. 1 envy you, Leam Greatorex! Your heart will never be torn with anguish as mine lias been. Life will be full of sunshine anil sweetness for you. When you are Basil’s wife you—* She moved abruptly away from the picture. and suddenly put her two cold hands over her trembling lips,

as though to hush the cry of pain that would have escaped her. The agony passed after that instant, but it left its trace, and Juslina realised the full triuth of what had happened then—realised that sorrow in a new and a sharjier form must Im- added now and always to the burden of trouble and biterness which, as Rupert Seaton’s wife, it was her lot to bear.

Love with all its majesty, its power, its- passion of sweetness and joy had come suddenly into her heart—love for one she must never love; love that, having shown her its exquisite beauty, its divine power for a single instant, must Ims torn ruthlessly from her heart and set aside from her forever, to be won and shared by another woman.

CHAPTER XV. If Justina eoukl have studied her own pride’s sake she would have left ('roomehurst before her aunt—Lady Sartoris—arrived as guest and chaperon to Lord Dunchester’s house party. She did, indeed, make some suggestion of this to Molly only the morning of the day that was set apart for the meet of the Dunstanley hounds. It was the first spoken word she had given touching her determination to go. Molly was, as we have seen, prepared for this decision, and yet. despite her quiet acceptance of it in Basil's presence a pang went through her heart as she heard the girl announce her departure, and as she looked on the very slender, absolutely delicate frame of the speaker. To Justina's great relief Molly made no sort of vigorous protest to the decision. but all the same she would not accept it immediately. 'Wait just a little while longer—till Christmas is well over. I am not going to say all 1 should like to say, Justina. There are some things which are too strong for argument or pleading. and you and your will are one of these things. All I ask is that you should wait a little longer. You are not very strong, remember. Dr. Wyllie told me yesterday you would want care for months to come, and—’

Here Molly broke off. ‘I want you to be here when your aunt comes, Justina,' she said, gently, after a moment's pause. ’But that is just what I do not want,’ Justina answered, with a touch of passion in her voice. "Molly, you don’t know what it will mean to me — a meeting with Aunt Margaret now.’ ’I think 1 do, darling. Basil and 1 tire not without relations, though, fortunately for our peace of mind, we have established a coolness with most of them. In the old days, before I'ncle William died and Bay came into the title, I can assure you I was nearly worried into my grave by a a variety of country cousins and interfering uncles and aunts, and yet— ’ ‘And yet, Molly?’ Molly lient forward and kissed Justina. She was arrayed in her wellrut riding habit, and very neat and charming she looked, the likeness to Basil being emphasised wonderfully by this masculine garb. ’Blood is thicker than water. Justina.’ she said, very tenderly, ‘and then- are some cases where own’s own kith and kin is an absolute necessity in one’s life.’ ‘Charity is always hard, but charity from one’s relations!’ Justina broke oft' with a shudder. Remembrance of the horrible time she had spent under her uncle’s roof just after her father’s death was full of bitterness still; not even the misery of her mistaken marriage could wipe out that bitterness. ‘Charity,’ Molly cried, hotly; ‘but. my darling little Just, why will you apply such a. word to yourself? From whom do you desire or expect to receive charity? You are. thank heaven, able to dispense with all such things. Tt is not for such a humiliating suggestion that I urge you to cultivate a friendship with your aunt. Tt is because T want yon to feel you will not be utterly alone in your brave, hard life; that you shall have some one who will be a kind of protector and counsellor combined. You know the world perhaps better than T do. Justina; therefore

you will see the value of what I have just said.' ’Must 1 consider the world before my own feelings'.” Justina asked, wearily, sadly. ’You must, undoubtedly, although there might be one who could afford to set the world at defiance.’ ‘Ami why they more than me, Molly Molly's reply was to turn the speaker round and put her face to face with a mirror. •Read my answer there,’ she said, pointing to the lovely reflection most quietly. / Justina blushed and then paled aud then sighed. •No doubt you are right, dear,’ she said, as she turned away, ‘but it will not make it any easier for me to ask a favour of my aunt. She does not approve of me. She has studiously avoided me for so long there can be such a poor pretence of friendship between us. Aunt Margaret hates everything that is unconventional and Bohemian. She—she objected very strongly to my marriage, and now—’ Justina paused for an instant. It was the first confidence she had made to Molly as yet on this subject: ‘and now, when—trouble—and dishonour have come to me through this marriage, she—’ But Molly had checked the speaker. She flung her arms about Justina's neck. Trouble has come to you indeed, my dear, dear loved friend, but dishonour—Justina, why do you use such a word? Tt hurts me—• hush. 1 don't want to hear any more. The story, whatever it is. is your secret. I can guess a little at its burden. There is bitterness and much anguish. There is a remembrance of wrong, but nothing you could tell me would ever let me permit you to share in that wrong. Another's evil doing is not yours. You are the bravest and sweetest and purest creature in the world. And now’, having relieved my feelings a little,’ Molly added, breaking into a laugh that was full of tears, ‘I will go and pint on my l.at, or Bay will be furious with me for being late.’

She had dropped a farewell kiss on Justina’s brow, and had vanished even as she spoke. It was the remembrance of this little scene that had started the painful train of thought in Justina's mind when she had carried her work into the drawing-room and determined to sptnd two or three hours looking into and over it. From one sad thought to another was an easy step, and thus when she had found herself standing looking down on that splendid picture of Leam Greatorex* her anguish had broken loose unconsciously, and in her grief she had confessed to herself a secret and a new sorrow which appalled her by its magnitude at this the very birth moment of its existence. She moved away from that pictured face; it seemed to mock her with its sold dignity, its proud queenliness; robbed her of all courage aud resolution of thought; it awoke within her feelings such as had never come to her before; it made her tremble with a weakness that was not the heritage of her illness. She was prostrated by the knowledge that had revealed itself to her in the last few moments. She quivered as though some unseen person or thing had struck her a violent and cruel blow. She felt frightened, oppressed, almost obliterated, by the force of this new pain that had come so surely into her heart. As she stood there before the fire, staring into its red-hot bosom in a fixed, unseeing way, there came the seuiud of horses’ hoofs on the avenue outside. As Justina. realised this sound dimly the door of the drawingroom was opened and the Earl of Dunchester was announced. ‘I must apologise for this visit, Mrs Seaton,’ he said, as he advanced into the room, looking much handsomer seen by daylight and wearing a hunting costume than he had done the night of his dining at Croome Hall, ‘I am afraid I am interrupting yon in your work.’ Justina, by a strong effort, niast-

ered the vigour and bitterness of her thought. ‘You see how busy I am,' she answered, holding out her two pretty little hands with a gesture ignifieant of their idleness, ‘but I am afraid, if you are come on a visit t<. Miss Fothergill or Sir Basil, you are doomed to be disappointed—they are both away hunting—all Croomehurst seems to have gone to this particular meet to-day.’ ‘All except me, and 1 have been there, which is an Irishism,’ laughed the young man, lightly. ‘1 had the misfortune, however, to lame my mare at the start out, so there was nothing to do but to turn back, get another moumt and ride across country later on to see if I can pick up any stragglers on their way home. The possibility of joining the run is out of the question now. as you can imagine. All this, however, will not explain, Mrs Seaton, why I am here inflicting myself on you and boring you when you, want to be at work. If you want to blame anybody, you must blame Miss Molly; it was she who sent me here. She called out to me to come and bring you her love and that you were to be sure and not work too hard, and she added, . she hoped I would do my best to amuse you for half an hour, which I am afraid,’ the Earl said, with a rather rueful expression, ‘will not be very successful.’

‘How kind she is! How good! How full of thought!’ Justina said, tears coming for an instant into her beautiful eyes; then she smiled at Molly’s messenger. ‘And you are very good, too, Lord Dunchester, to lose your chance of joining the run simply to give me pleasure. I am quite sure, had you not come here, you wouild have picked up the rest of the field quite easily.’ Lord Dunchester coloured and laughed. ‘1 do not regret anything,’ he said, cheerily. ‘I can hunt any day,’ but I cannot always have the pleasure of talking with you, Mrs Seaton.’ Justina smiled gently. She liked him; he was boyish and frank, and she quite understood the interest he had awakened in Molly’s loyal heart. ‘Suppose you make yourself comfortable,’ she said, prettily. ‘No —I don’t think I shall be able to do anv

work to-day; I shall enjoy a little chat with you, Lord Dunchester.’ It was the truth she spoke, poor child, for she felt she was glad of anything that took her thoughts away, if only for an instant, from the bitter sweet channel in which they would flow now for the rest of her life.

They drew up two chairs to the fire, and they talked of many things, but chiefly' of the coining Lady Sartoris and her two daughters, cousins whom Justina had never yet met.

"They are not half bail girls.' the young man said, with that slangy appreciation that passes for enthusiasm now and then; ‘but they are not handsome like their mother, nor clever either. They are good-hearted and very unaffected; the eldest, Gyneth, will marry well, I think. Anyhow, there is a man in love with her who has plenty of tin, and I don’t fancy Lady Sartoris will say “no” when he proposes. I can’t quite believe they are your cousins, though. Mrs Seaton, you —you are so different.’

‘Aly mother and Aunt Margaret used to be considered alike, at least so 1 believe,’ Justina answered to this. ‘Oh, well, perhaps 1 do see a little resemblance between you and Lady Sartoris, but it is not much.’ There was a silence after this which Justina longed to break, but scarcely knew how to broach the subject that sight of this young man suddenly revived.

After all, she had absolutely nothing to lead her to suppose that the St. Leger, whom Lord Dunchester had met in Paris, had any connection whatsoever with her husband Rupert; and yet, something, she could not tell what, seemed to link this unknown man in a. firm if vague manner to that, one who had treated her so cruelly. It was the Earl who at last introduced the very subject which was occupying’ Justina’s thoughts.

‘I am sorry to say 1 cannot induce my friend St. Leger to join my party. I am awfully sorry, because he would have made everything so* jolly. He can turn his hand to anything—a splendid sportsman, a good whip, dances like the wind, can’t be beaten at billiards, and sings and plays like

an angel, or. rather. I should say. like u real good musician.’ ‘He must have plenty of energy.’ Justina said, smiling a iittle forcedly. Somehow this catalogue of accomplishments. though it did not tally by any means with Rupert's capabilities. had. nevertheless, a doubtful sound in her ears.

She had heard something of the same kind of thing uttered with enthusiasm by Rupert in those first days of acquaintance with the gang of dissolutes and gamblers who had eventually been his ruin. 'I don't believe St. Leger ever goes to sleep.’ Lord Dunchester made answer, laughingly, to Justina’s last remark. Certainly, if he does do so he don't choose the night for sleep. Yet he must have some rest, otherwise he could not be so fresh and lively all the time.’

'ls he very handsome?’ Justina asked, urged on, she could hardly tell why, to probe the matter still further.

‘Um—so—so—yes, handsome, I suppose, in a rather bold, coarse style. Oh! there is no doubt St. Leger is not quite the right thing ; I don't fancy there is much blue blood flowing in his veins, and 1 should not be surprised to hear that St. Leger is not his own particular name ; but for all that, the man is amusing, and I daresay he would have had a success if he had come down here as I wanted him to do.’

Justina paused a moment or so. The picture he had drawn of this man called up all the repugnance, the weary hopelessness with which she had met those ‘soi disant' friends of Rupert, who had been so successful in drawing him away from her influence and launching him on his career of infamy.

Visions of sweet, pretty, happy Beatrice Somerset and others of the young girls she had seen since her arrival at Croomehurst arose to confront the thought of this man, and as she sketched quickly in her mind the possibility of one or another of these simple, unworldly girls won easily by the smart bearing and fascinating manner of such an one, she shivered, for there were very, very few women. Justina knew, who would have been able to bear with such a fate as

had fallen upon her. The force of her thoughts urged her to speak. 'Perhaps it is as well your friend did not come. Lord Dunchester.’ she said, not very steadily. ’Success to him might have meant sorrow to others. I—l have met this kind of man you describe, and I do not think they carry much good about with them, however handsome and fascinating they may be.’ Lord Dunchester looked at her for an instant rather curiously; then he reniemliered that she was a young wife, living apart from her husband, and though no word of explanation had been given him. he understood as much as though the whole of Justina’s pitiful story had been laid before him. "No doubt you are right, Mrs Seaton,’ lie said, quietly, "and, after all. I should not have been surprised if St. Leger hail not been a failure down here: he is essentially a town mouse, and the country would not be much in his line.’ And after that the conversation drifted on to other things, and the subject was dropped : but there would come a day when both would recall it absolutely, and would marvel at the presentiment or unconscious knowledge that had made Justina speak as she had done about this man. CHAPTER XVI. After that conversation with Molly and Justina it was an understood thing between them that the girl would not make an effort to leave CToome Hall till after she had met her aunt, ami some sort of attempt at a reconciliation, if not of future arrangements, had been come to between Justina and Lady Sartoris. A few days passed away tranquilly. Justina had returned to her work; she took it up with a zest that was almost a fever It was a refuge from her thoughts; it was an excuse for her extreme pallor and for avoiding much conversation with Basil, or for being much in his society. The guests arrived at Lord Dunchester’s queer, rambling old house, and the very day Lady Sartoris appeared on the scene she drove over to Croome Hall to renew her acquaintance with Molly and to embrace her niece.

Yes. she had no objectipn whatever to embracing her niece under the present most desirable circumstances.

Justinu living in dingy, doubtful lodgings with a husband who was everything that a well organised woman of the world abominated was one fact; Justina staying at Croome Hall without this objectionable husband, welcomed and tendered by Sir Basil Fothergill and his sister as some one extremely dear to them was quite another.

Lady Sartoris was nothing if not tactful, and although not a little curious to understand exactly how this change had come about in her niece’s domestic arrangements, had no intention of giving voice to her curiosity. Instead, she adopted a tender, upbraiding tone—the remonstrance of a sincere affection.

•To have such an illness, Justina, and to let me know nothing about it! My dear, it was positively cruel!’ she said, reproachfully: ’why—why did you not send for me? Of course I know 1 was not in town, but I should have hastened to you without any delay.’ It was Molly who come to the resc tie.

‘Blame me, Lady Sartoris, not Justina; poor child, she was in no condition to remember you or anyone else. I should have sent to you, but you see I did not know where to send. However, all’s well that ends well, and, thank Heaven for that, our Justina is well now, and is going to remain so all the rest of her life, I hope.’ Lady Sartoris smiled and murmured many pretty words. She was looking at her niece with unbounded admiration, not a little tempered with dismay.

‘My goodness,’ she said to herself, ‘the girl is exquisitely beautiful—how like her mother, to be sure! A bad thing for my ugly ducklings, but, after all, Justina’s fate is settled; she can’t do them much harm,’ and then, like the clever worldling she was. Lady Sartoris began to see what it was that was expected of her by the Fothergills. I suppose you are not going to run away from your delightful quarters just immediately. Justina,’ she said, lightly. ‘We shall be with Lord Diinchester for a fortnight or three weeks, after that we are due at another visit, hut when that is over, my darling child, you must come to me for a good long time—no—no—l shall take no denial: you simply must come, Justina.’

Molly smiled faintly to herself; she read through Lady Sartoris easily, and she knew just how much pleasure or sincerity Justina would derive from this seeming affection; nevertheless, in the face of the circumstances which her sisterly love, her woman’s sympathy, had discovered, this overture of friendship was not without its value. Justina. alas! must go from them. TTow much better, therefore, that she should co chaperoned, if not merely comforted and protected, by one who was bound to her by the closest ties of blood relationship.

Justina herself received her aunt’s overtures very quietly. She tried not to be cold, or not to let the bitterness of the old neglect rise up to speak in her voice or manner.

'I shall be glad to come to you for a little while, Aunt Margaret,’ she said, but with no warmth in her voice. ‘Only you know 1 shall not be an agreeable visitor for you, as I shall have to devote myself to my work night and day.’ ‘lf you only knew the difficulty 1 have with her, Lady Sartoris,’ Molly cried, brightly; ‘1 assure you we have very nearly had to hide every pen in the house in ease this young lady should begin her labours too soon; she is a most obstinate little person.’ Justina smiled faintly, while Lady Sartoris sipped her cup of tea comfortablv.

‘Ah! you must inherit that sort of thing from your father and his family, Justina,’ she remarked lightly. ‘We were none of us so inclined to industry or to independence either.’ ‘Well, it is a very excellent thing to be independent sometimes,' Molly said dryly, though, of course, courteously.

Her mind flew back to the days of Justina’s life before that long, dreary illness. What would have happened to the girl then if there had not been independence and perseverance, and industry, too?

She thought it wiser to change the conversation, and began discussing Lord Dunehestcr and the other inhabitants of Croomehurst. Lady Sartoris was more in her element here: she was vaguely conscious of being nt a disadvantage, while Justina and her affairs were being dis-

cussed, and though she was an exceedingly clever woman of the world, there was a certain touch of rebuke and reproach in the quiet, cold dignity with which Justina received her lateoffered remembrance that annoyed her very much Lady Sartoris had never thoroughly liked her niece for the very simple reason that Justina possessed a nature and a character far superior to her own, and one, therefore, incapable of being moulded or arranged, as she moulded and arranged most of those who came into her power. She was always conscious, too. of a natural and strong touch of envy over this other girl’s great beauty: she was proud, in a certain sense, of her own daughters, because they were her children and the result of her training and rearing; but she could not shut her eyes to the fact that, contrasted with their cousin, they were not nearly as desirable as they ought to have been, and this old feeling of annoyance which had been at the root of all her neglect of her sister’s child threatened to be none the less disagreeable and perpetual now. Lady Sartoris could not help hoping that Justina’s proud spirit would for a second time rebel from accepting the lukewarm hospitality and interest offered to her. She threw herself into the other topics of conversation with a zest that was very easily and quickly translated by Justina.

The conversation drifted, as it was bound to do, on to the subject of Lady Gertrude Greatorex and her daughter Learn.

Lady Sartoris found much to admire in Miss Greatorex. ‘A magnificent young woman—most oueenly. T always predicted a great future for Learn Greatorex. T believe she could have married exceedingly well when she was in town with the Thichess. T expect, however, she is very difficult to please,’ she declared.

Molly did not answer immediately: she was occupied in pouring some water into the teapot. “Learn is very distinguished looking." she said, when she spoke, ‘only don’t you find her very cold. Lady Sartoris? Of course, T am used to her, but most people can’t get on at all with her.’ and then Molly laughed slightly. ‘lt would have to he such a brave man to begin to make love to Learn,’ she said, as lightly as she could. She did not look at Justina during this part of the conversation. ‘Well,’ Lady Sartoris declared again, ‘I do admire her, and I think she would make a wife for any man to be proud of. T suppose Lord Dunchester would have chosen her long before this if he had possessed a couple of extra sovereigns to rub together.’ Molly’s face coloured at this very faintly. Lord Dunchester is not a marrying man, I am afraid,’ she answered lightly. ‘I am rather sorry he does not make up his mind to “ranger” and settle down into a respectable domesticated person. How do you find him as a host, Lady Sartoris?’ ‘Oh. charming—perfectly charming! So bright and so thoughtful. It is so regretable he is so poor; but such is always the case, is it not, with the nice people in this world?’ It was Justina who answered very softly: ‘Not always the case, Aunt Margaret,’ she said. ‘Molly and Basil are not poor, and they are—nice.’ She paused before the last word, and her eyes met Molly’s for an instant, with a wealth of tenderness in their expression. ‘Exceptions. These are exceptions, and rare ones, too!’ Lady Sartoris said, rising; ‘and now I must go, dear child; I shall see you soon again,’ and with a host of pretty but meaningless phrases Justina’s aunt drove away. The girl gave a sigh of relief as this visit was ended, and she gladly consented to Molly’s suggestion that they should put on their outdoor things and go for a brisk little walk in the grounds. The fresh air was pleasant to Justina. She had been working very hard, and now that the die was east, her future settled, and the date of her departure all but named, she was conscious of a sort of mental reaction, a nerveless feeling, a weary acquiescence to all that might come. ‘Suppose we go through the village.’ Molly suggested; ‘it will not be too ■far for yon, Just, darling.’ Justina agreed, and forthwith they started. As they were passing down

the pathway they were hailed by Basil. ‘Whither away?' he inquired ’Molly, do you know you are taking Justina along like an express engine. You ought to have some mercy on her poor, weak limbs.’ Justina laughed and blushed. ‘You see how cruelly I am treated,’ she said lightly. They all three walked together on towards the village.

‘I suppose I ought to go and see Lady Gertrude Greatorex?’ Molly said after a while. ‘Learn sent up a little note this morning; her mother seems very unwell again, Bay.’ ‘You can go if you like; I will take care of Justina,’ Basil said quickly. How his heart leaped at the very sound of those last words he spoke. If he might only set them before him as his life’s most beautiful task, his daily mission, his love’s delight and duty!’

A tiny tinge of colour came into Justina’s delicate cheeks; she shrank from being alone with him, and yet—she felt a thrill of almost divine joy come at the prospect of hearing him speak, of feeling the strong support of his arm as they walked homeward through the dusk. ‘All right,’ Molly declared, ‘then 1 will go. I fancy Lady Gertrude imagines I have rather neglected her of late; so I think it is my duty to go and inquire after her, and, besides, I want to see Leam. I think,’ Molly added, with a mischievous glance at Justina, ‘I think I must let Leam know what a warm admirer she has in Lady Sartoris!’ At the end of the quaint old High Street, therefore they separated, and Molly flitted away, a bright and pleasant vision in her sealskin and close toque, with its touch of scarlet. Justina had put on a small bonnet, and the wind had blown the soft curls about her brows and eyes into the sweetest roughness; with a slight glow of colour on her cheeks, the blue of her eyes was deepened marvellously. Basil turned his gaze resolutely from her beauty. ‘lf you are not tired we will go home this way,’ he said, indicating a pathway that led back to Croome Hall by the small railway station. Justina declared gaily that she was not in the least tired, and they walked on into the clear, star-lit darkness of the winter night. ‘lt seems so odd to think that Christmas is so near,’ she said, after a little pause. She wanted so much that he should not notice any constraint or change in her manner. ‘I am so glad you will be with us for this one Christmas, at least,’ Basil made answer. She cheeked a sigh. ‘Aunt Margaret has been to-day, you know. Basil.’ ‘Yes, I heard she had driven over.’ ‘She was most affectionate. What a lot I owe to you and your beautiful old home, Basil!’

He drew her hand through his arm. ‘lt is rough- going here: you may stumble,’ was all he said. There was silence again between them for a few yards. ‘Y ou are glad I have accepted her offer of friendship, are you not?’ she queried, after that pause. It was so hard to know how to converse easily with balance, yet silence was more difficult still. ‘I am glad—yes.’ Basil answered her. ‘Since—since you must go from us, Justina. your aunt’s protection is the best thing that can come to you.’ ‘J suppose I must go to her for a time,’ the girl said, gently; ‘but I know I shall not be able to remain long. Aunt Margaret’s ways can never be mine: I must work for my living; the very fact of my writing every day will be a source of annoyance to her; she will object to my work, and I—shall object to her charity, so we shall separate.’ ’You will try and bear it, Justina, will you not? Oh! my dear, do you think I do not know how bitter it all will be to you, but still —’ ‘Still, since I have to face bitterness which ever way I look, as well find it there as elsewhere,’ Justina said, gently. ‘Yes, Basil. I shall try and be as happy as possible under all the circumstances of a life that is not made for happiness.’ ‘Just— ’ Basil spoke the name hurriedly, then paused; ‘there are some things that are difficult to be touched even by our best friends, and yet— ’ ‘Ask me what you will, Basil. I

will answer you,’ the girl said, lyBasil was silent another moment. ‘lt is about Seaton. You have told me nothing, Justina, and 1 do not want you to speak if the subject hurts you too much.’ ‘There is so little to tell,’ Justina answered, but she trembled as she spoke, and he felt the quiver of her arm against his. The full horror of that past moment when Rupert’s desertion and cruelty had fallen upon her seemed to return now, but she shook off her weakness hurriedly. In a few brief words she told him of that letter she had found waiting for her when she returned from that visit to his hotel. She spoke of the desertion that had been planned so quietly, so cunningly, but of that worse crime she could not yet bring herself to speak—of that trick by which the forged cheque had been made absolutely sure, and Basil’s money had passed from his account to the hands of Rupert Seaton and his confederate through her anguished and most mistaken ministrations. The man who listened was silent for a long time. It was well nigh impossible for him to speak—his thoughts were so fierce and hot against the villain whose name this child bore. After a moment he conquered himself. He wished to know all there was to know, so that he might be prepared for whatever might lie in the future of this girl. ‘You know better than I do,’ he said, after that long pause. ‘You will therefore lie able to say whether you think this departure is meant to be final, or whether he will some day return to you.’

Justina shrank back at these words, and her hand clung to his arm. ‘Oh! not that,’ she cried, in an anguished tone, ‘anything but that— Basil—l —l could not bear that.’ He took her hand in his for a second; it was his only answer to that cry from a woman’s heart, and Justina. awakening from that moment of prospective horror, was grateful to him for his silence. ‘Let us taik of other things,’ she said, resolutely; there is no good to be got by speaking of what ean never be altered. I am glad to have told you so much, Basil, for you should know everything; but for the rest— ’ ‘Yes, let us talk of other things,’ he made answer, quickly. ‘You have never told me what you think of Croomehurst, and its inhabitants, Justina; not much study of character, I am afraid, for your work.’ ‘Oh! I don’t know; there are even in this small world some marked contrasts of human nature. Take, for instance, that laughing sunbeam, Beatrice Somerset, and that handsome, regal young woman, Miss Greatorex.’ ‘Well, yes. I confess those are two very marked contrasts. What is your criticism of Leam Greatorex —do you like her, Justina?’ ‘Like is hardly the word Miss Greatorex inspires,’ Justina said, while a great sense of coldness fell suddenly upon her heart. ‘She is very handsome and distinguished, Basil.’ ‘But not very sympathetic, eh?’ ‘She is a little difficult for a stranger to understand,’ Justina said, evasively; ‘but I should say she was a very clever and most intellectual woman, Basil.’ ‘Um—well, I am not quite sure. Leam poses a little, I fancy. I often wonder why she and Dunchester do not make a match of it. They are so entirely opposite, they ought to get on splendidly.’ Justina’s heart was beating a little quickly. ‘Oh! I do not fancy that would be a very successful venture, Basil. Your friend the Earl is an exceedingly pleasant young man. but Miss Greatorex requires something more than agreeable manners for her husband. She is a woman born to shine in some high position, to be the companion of a good and clever man. I—’ Justina paused imperceptibly. ‘l—think you would make a good husband, Basil,’ she said, as lightly as she could after that. He made no answer at first, and she feared she had vexed him, but suddenly he spoke quite naturally; not hotly or agitatedly—most simply and calmly. ‘No; Leam is not quite the wife I should choose; neither am I the husband to make her happy. Justina, I

will let you into a little secret if you will promise to keep it religiously to yourself. I have determined never to take a wife at all unless —•’ ‘Unless—’ Justina echoed, very faintly. •Here we are at the station,’ said Basil, going abruptly from the conversation. ‘Now I wonder if you would think me very rude if I asked you to wait here while I go and see if I can capture the latest London paper?’

‘Go, most certainly,’ Justina said, and she sent him from her with a smile.

There were tears in her eyes as she watched his tall, grand figure move away from her, and her heart was beating wildly.

Something in his voice rather than his words had started that emotion within her. She could not quite understand it. nor did she seek to do so. She rested against an old wooden railing that ran along the back of the path where they were walking, and she. waited for him to come back. The little station was just in a bustle as a train had come steaming in. ‘From London, I suppose,’ Justina said- to herself. She had a vague thrill of pain at the very mention of the word London. What memories of misery and sadness were confused up in its sound!

There were few arrivals, and no one seemed to need the very quaintlooking fly that was waiting so patiently. A smart dog-cart, however, was not without its occupant, and as Justina stood watching she saw Sir Basil come through the doorway with two other men, who. after a little conversation,, mounted into this dog-cart and prepareel to drive away. ‘lt is Lord Dunchester,’ Justina said to herself, as the sound of a voice came to her ears. It was not quite sc easy to see the faces. Sir Basil’s big form alone was un ■ mistakable. He came striding across to her, and the dog-cart left the station at the same moment. It flashed past Justina. Neither of the men in it noticed her nor the great start she gave as the vehicle whirled by. ‘That’s Dunchester’s wonderful friend from Paris,’ Sir Basil said, as he rejoined her and took her hand through his arm again. ‘Made up his mind after all to take Philip a.t his word and come down here for a while.’ ‘Can’t say 1 am much impressed with his looks. No more a St. Leger than I am; of that I will be very certain. For the rest it is hard to condemn a ehap before you know him. AU the same, I think Dunchester s party would have been better if his last guest had stuck to his original intention and not joined it.' Justina made no reply. Words were quite impossible to her. Her brain was on tire for a moment. Quickly as the dog-cart had passed her there had been time and light enough for her to recognise in Lord Dunchester’s companion, Mr St. Leger, the face and form of the man George Aynesworth, the former friend and accomplice of her husband—Rupert Seaton. (To be Continued.)