SERIAL STORY. HER LAST THROW.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIV, Issue IV, 27 January 1900, Page 150

SERIAL STORY. HER LAST THROW.

BY "THE DCCHESS.’’

CHAPTER IX. "They who tell me that men grow hard hearted as they grow older, have a very limited view of this world of ours. She stands still where he has left her. listening—'listening always to the steps ithat are going from her. After awhile, as if unable to command her strength, she sinks into the chair behind her and presses her handkerchief to her lips. Her teeth meet on it. but she is unconscious of e’veryitihing save those departing footsteps. Now—now they have gone down the stairs, and now he is crossing the hall. And now—he is at the hall door. The servanrt. is opening it. There is yet time to call him back, to fling herself into his kind arms, and—ruin his life. "Oh. no!” she had half risen, witlh a passionate longing in her eyes—but now- the passion dies away into the saddest, greyest, ashes, ami she staggers backward, a mere wreck upon the cruel ocean of life. At this moment the'hall door closes. The 'sharp click of the lock is known to her. .Even still she. can hear his step crunching on the gravel path. But now—now it is gone; s 4 he leans forward as if to compel her ears to the service required of them, but no use. He is gone—gone forever! Forever! Forever! She throws her hands above her head; but not the smallest sound escapes her. Why was she born? Had she asked to be brought into a world that would treat her like this? All through her horrible lament, however, there runs a voice that renders it even more intolerable. “My own fault! My own fault!” cries this voice, that is unappeasable—incessant. She cannot bear it. Rising, she flings herself bodily upon a sofa, and buries her head in the cushions. Oh! that thus easily she could bury herself out of sight. If—if she had known —if She grows confused—a- pain even keener than this mental one has now caught her. She presses her hand to her heart. Oh! the agony! And now the two hands clutch at the seat of pain—and now It is quite an hour later when the housekeeper enters the room. A gaunt woman, almost forbidding in appearance, with a face marked by small-pox and a stern, cold mouth. Her eyes, however, as they light on that stricken form lying so motionless upon the sofa, seem to alter suddenly. They grow eager—frightened—transfigured, for love lies in them. Love that beautifies all things. She rushes forward. “Janet! Janet!” she cries in a low tone, yet one replete with passionate tenderness. It seems a strange address from a woman clothed in the garb of servitude as she is to the slender, exquisitely formed woman lying on the sofa. But the days had been when the two were equal, and in the agony of the moment, the woman had forgotten the gulf that since had spread itself between them. A gulf not created by that poor creature lying there unconscious. The housekeeper, lifting her in her strong arms, turns her face to the light. She is still breathing. She is alive still. Alive, thank God for that above all things! After a minute or two Mrs Barrington stirs painfully and opens her eyes. Her lips are blue. "You must be mad to lie like t’hat,” says the woman, the relief following on seeing the eyes open acting on the fear and grief going before rendering her now even more stern than usual. “Here, sit up!” She lifts Mrs Barrington in a sitting position, pressing down the pillows behind her back. “What was it?” asks she. “The same old pain? The heart again?” “Ah—the heart!” says Mrs Barrington in a strange tone that puzzles the other. “Well—there is more!” says she in her grim way. "What makes you speak like that? And there’s a queer look aliout you, too. He was here, wasn’t he?” “Yes.” “Ah! you’ve been having it out with him—what? All through fhe roughness of her manner an extreme and almost vehement affection betravs itself.

Mrs Barrington smiles at her —a wan smile that is affirmative. "He knowst then? He has been told ?” Mrs Barrington smiles again. Oh! what a smile. "Damn the one that told him, then!” says the woman, with a strange ferocity. Her eyes gleam, she uprears her gaunt figure and breathes heavily. She turns to her mistress as though to say something further, and then—grows quite calm. That pale, almost dying face! Is she to be the one to make it paler? If she eat her heart out would it do any good? A sense of despair paralyses the woman. She subdues her anger by an heroic effort, and whilst giving way to murderous thoughts of Pasco, who, she believes, has proved unfaithful, still manages to regard Janet with the old, quiet, stern glance. “You know you have been warned to avoid excitement of all kinds. Is any man worth dying for? Is the grave better than this life?’ “Have you a doubt?” says Mrs Barrington, speaking in a faint whisper, and with a touch of something in her voice that might almost be termed amusement —a shadow of it. "A great many,” says the woman, sharply. “Life is life. There is nothing like it. Don’t you want to know what is going on? What he !s going to do, for example? Hah!” as she sees a change cross Mrs Barrington's face. "I told you so. Nobody ever wants to be nobody. Come now , rouse yourself. Sit up a bit. Thereare other things in the world besides that man, He is, of course, like all the rest—fair weather friends. Why should you pin your faith to any one of them all? They all laugh and love, and ride away, and forget—” “Ah! ah! Forget. He will forget." Janet has broken into a terrible cry. and has fallen back on her cushions. "There, there,” says the housekeeper. “It was only a word, darling. A word well meant. And if you could forget. Now. There, there. Come." sternly, “be sensible. If you persist in giving way to emotion of this kind some day it will carry you off.” "Carry me off!” She has broken into a hysterical laugh. Why, you would make him and death one. That is what he wanted to do—to carry me off." “He?” “Yes, yes,” excitedly. sitting up again, but always with her hand pressed to her side, and with her words coming in little gasps. “You thought otherwise, didn’t you? But he is true, true as steel.” “He asked you to go away with him?” says the woman in a dazed sort of way. “Yes, and you too. Come.” laughing wildly, “there was generosity for you. Not only me. the disgraced one. the one his own brother thinks only worthy to be trodden under foot, and —and—with justice; but he was so careful of me. and when 1 said 1 could not leave you he arranged that you shoidd come away with us and sail to lands unknown.” She falls back exhausted, still laughing miserably. The woman, taking a. bottle from her pocket, looks quickly round her. and seeing a tiny coloured glass upon one of the tables, pours a few drops from the l>ottle into it and gives it to her mistress. Janet swallows it and grows by degrees calmer. “Now. not another word.” says the woman, seeing her about to speak. “Acknowledge, then, you wronged him. He asked—he implored me to marry him and go abroad with him.” “Well, why don't you go?” says the woman. “Oh, no!” She shakes her head. The faint colour that her cheeks had regained now quits them again. The housekeeper grows alarmed. “That would mean misery for me, not happiness.” Her voice has become almost inarticulate. “Come u pul airs to your bed.” says the housekeeper, quickly. “Come! you can think it all out as well there as here, and rest is what you want.” “Rest!” says Mrs Barrington, slowIv. “Rest!”

She says nothing more. The housekeeper, passing her arms under her, lifts her to her feet, and almost carries her on her short journey upstairs. CHAFTER X. And to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth. And that was shining on him. “So 'he has gone abroad?" says Fay, raising her tearful eyes to Ernest. Severn’s face. “Poor, poor fellow! He seemed broken-hearted. Oh. it was hard, wasn’t it?” "Well, J don’t know,” says Ernest, riveting his eyes upon the ground (they are in the garden) and feeling himself a monster. “You don’t know?” wlith awful emphasis. “1 suppose,” with severity as awful as the emphasis, “you know this much, at all events, that he 1 >ved her and that she loved him.” “Yes —of course —but "But why, what, more do you want?” indignantly. “I think I never heard of so sad a ease. And iit appears she behaved splendidly! Actually refused to marry him! George has been in such a way ever since. I believe it was all his fault. But,” spitefully, “he is just like you. I dare say he doesn’t believe in love, either, though I’m sure Nettie is a perfect model of a wi f e.” “Who says I don’t believe in love?” demands he, hotly. “I do!” boldly. “Simply because I think Pascoe is well off a marriage with a woman who—who ” “She was lovely,” says Miss Ashiton, inconsequently. “I dare say.” ”1 heard you say so yourself over and over again.” “Very likely. But, as I suppose you have heard before, this loveliness ” “I haven’t heard anything,” says she, pettishly, tilting up a charming little shoulder against him. “She was lovely, and she was sweet! That to me is everything, so there!” “You carry ouit my view exactly.” says he. unmoved. “Permit me to finish my sentence. I suppose you have heard before this that some sweets are not good for us?” "You must be sweet,” says she, impertinently. "Though,” with an irrepressible laugh, “one wouldn’t think it. because you certainly aren't good for me.” "I'm good to you, for all that,” says lie. undaunted. “I’m trying to show you the right path, only you won’t be led by me. All women are unreasonable.” “According to all men,” quickly, casting at him a disdainful glance from under her heavily fringed lids. “That is one of the old foolish beliefs ito which people still cling because their grandfathers so clung before them. They have no other reason. Once in the dark ages, some sour old bachelor collected together all the vices of men, and wrote them down, and then attributed them to women. And now his calumnies have become settled beliefs with all the masculine world. But we know better. All women are unreasonable, you say. But.” with withering scorn, “what are all men, I wonder!” "Fools!” said Capt-iin Severn, with -heerful humility. She glances at h’in doubtfully a moment, a little taken aback by this ready submission, perhaps, and then says, relentlessly: “So they are.” After this, as might rationally be expected. there is a silence for a minute or two. “I must say,” says he in a distinctly offended tone, "you are n very severe critic.” “1 only endorse your own sentiments.” returns she ieily. "There 's one sentiment, however, you refuse to credit me with. You say I don't Itelieve in love.” “I said.” prevaricating mildly, “that I supposed Sir George didn’t.” “You said I didn’t,” persistently. “Oh. did I? Well- Do you?” “Fay.” says he. suddenly - sharply. He catches her hand, hut she breaks herself resolutely from him and turns to face him with gleaming eyes.

“Well?” says she, defiantly. “You know what I mean,” says the young man, defiantly, in return. “Know what?” Her lips are white, and her low, broad forehead lined with an ominous frown. “You give me credit for more intelligence than I possess. I know nothing—-nothing.” “Ah, because you won’t know,” says he. There is silence for a moment or two and then—“l hope I don’t know,” says she. slowly. “If I do how am I to regard you again—as an honourable man?” “Fay, be reasonable,” says he, forgetting the late argument. A little derisive laugh breaks from her. “Reasonable! You forget. 1 am a woman—by your own showing. 1 could not be that.” “Listen to me,” says he. “I want to tell you a story.” “I hate stories,” returns she, restlessly. “Let me put a case before you, then.” “Well, make it short,” says she. “If—supposing—there should be two people, both young—who, in an absurd moment, thought that they—that is—” “It is a rather involved ease, isn’t it?” asks she, glancing up at him mischievously. That light attack of nervousness that was more than half anger, that troubled her awhile ago. has now entirely disappeared. The anger is certainly all gone, and if any of the nervousness still remains it is carefully hidden away. “No—no. It is very simple. But I feel you are not listening—not caring.’ “Well, I will listen now.” “Oh. no: you have spoiled it,” says he. impatiently. “I couldn’t go on now. Only this remains: I shall never marry Jessica.” She turns to him quickly, passionately. and then controls herself. "You should tell that to her, not to another.” says she, coldly, “If you must tell it at all. But —.your promise ?” “Given when I was a mere boy! Does that hold a man for all his life? And. besides, it would be different if she cared, but she does not. At least not for me.” Miss Ashton lifts her dark eyes and regards him curiously for a moment. "There is such a thing as jealousy," says she. "If you imagine 1 am jealous of Wylding, you don’t know me,” retorts he. "Oh. if 1 eould only believe she honestly eared for him, what a. relief it would be. But—could she care?” “You wrong her,” says Fay in a low tone. “She has a heart in her body somewhere. I am sure of thait. I am not sure, however, that you do not possess it.” “And yet you have watched her day by day. Fay, let me speak to you openly. Already you know I don’t care for her. You must know that she is equally indifferent to me. To her cousin. Gilbert Wylding, she has given all the love of which she is capable.” “Ah! who can l>e sure of t’hat,” says she, arguing the point even against her better judgment. Even to her. of late—and she is a newcomer to the country —it has seemed that Jessica Wileolit 'has given kinder words and smiles to Wylding than to any other man of her acquaintance—than even to t he man she has promised to marry. But then might not all this be the result of pique? Has Ernest been i devoted lover? She lifts her eyes to Severn’s. "Perhaps it is your fault,” says she. “I dare say 1 am always in fault so far as you think,” returns he, bitterly. “You refuse to give a chance. And yet you must see for yourself how things are going.” “If,” says Fay in a little troubled tone, her pretty face growing sad and distressed, "if she is going to prove false to you. I—you know how sorry I shall feel for you.” "False! Good Heavens! 1 hope she will prove false!” cries he. “Oh! if once I could feel free again; free —to tell —the one I really love how I love her!” His eyes meet hers. He makes a quick irrepressible movement in her direction, in vain to deny him. He has his arms round her, and. after one faint effort at repulsion she gives way anti her small, pretty head sinks upon his shoulder. “It is wrong—wrong," sobs she. vehemently. “Oh. no! Nothing is wrong if you love me as I love you! You do love me. Fay?” “Ah! you know it,” says she “You

have known it for ever so long. That is why I hate you.” “Well, you know that I love you, too," says he, pressing his cheek to hers, and too much agitated to take notice of the astonishing nature of her answer to his simple question. “My darling! Won't be so unhappy. It will all come right, and She ” “Oh. no. No; it is wicked, dishon-our-able. horrible! Perhaps she loves you in spite of all we know. She may” —anxiously—“in fact,” looking at him with loving eyes, “I’m sure she must!” “Nonsense, sweetheart. That is a mere phantasy of your brain. We are heartily sick of each other, she and I. I have' known that for a long time. And. besides ” “Well, it is no use speaking to me,” says she, sighing heavily. “I can only feel one .thing—that you have given your word to her, and that you love me.” “That is two things,” says he. “But if she doesn’t want my word?" “Ah! If she would say so!” “I would to heaven Wylding woul<» make her say it,” says he, miserably. “Not that it makes much difference about him! Now t.hait 1 know yon care for me. my own little sweet, precious darling, I shall go up to The Park to-morrow, and tell Jessica that I have changed my m|ind about—many things.” “Don’t do that,” says she, quickly. She releases herself from his loving arms and stands back from him. “1 couldn’t, bear you to do that. It would be dishonourable; and I should always feel that it was I who had driven you to do what —what .the world would consider ” “I don’t think of the world,” says he. “You are my world. There is nothing beyond.” “Then you do think of the world," says she. with a quick fiaslli of it. “and a censorious one, too, for I should condemn a breach of faith in any one." “But. how if you found this to be no breach ?” “Ah! Brut how shall I find that?” “Fay! Trust me! Believe in me!” cries he, passionately, drawing her to him, and encircling her little fragile form in his strong arms. “There s no dishonour anywhere, neither with me nor Jessica. She is as free from blame as I am. We were both hurried into an engagement that had no hold upon our hearts. But now—now! My belovqd—my darling!” pressing her head down against his breast, “you know how it is with me. I love you. Fay. if I talked' to you forever 1 could say nothing stronger .than that.” “And I —l love you, too!” says she. breaking into bitter tears, “but 't is all useless! All! If she—of her own will—does not. release you from your engagement to her, I can not listen to you.” “Oh, Fay!—be merciful! If I speak to her ” “No. It would not be the same thing. It would not lx 1 right! If she were to tell you she didn’tt want to marry you, that would be different. I should”—naively—“be happy then! But otherwise ” “You raise a barrier between us that will never be razed,” says Severn, desperately. “She is governed so far by her mother that she would hardly dare to break with me.” He speaks sincerely, but in this he wrongs Jessica. “If you decide, upon refusing me when 1 have ended this loveless engagement that now ties me—why, 1 shall not end it. As well -be miserable one way as the other.” She is silent. “Speak, Fay!” “I ou proposed to her of your own free will—she has not spoken >to you any word that would betray her desire to break her engagement, with you. I think you should keep to it,” says she. It is strange to see. so much strength so much determination in so small a creature. It shall lie as you will.” says Severn in a low voice. He turns away, ami then comes back again. “Nevertheless, I shall puit an end to thus hated l>ond to-morrow,” says he, f “*ggedly, and with a sudden angry change of purpose. She makes no reply. She is standing quite quiet, her little figure in its pretty white frock towed. Her face -Ifwo tears run swiftly down her cheeks. Oh, darling!” cries he in a suffocated tone. He makes a step toward her; but. she, throwing out lioth her hands to check him, runs swiftly up the balcony steps leading into the drawing-

room, and, like a small whirlwind, disappears round ithe corner of tftie first window-. CHAPTER XI, All nature is but Art. unknown to thee All chance, direction, which thou canst not see. All discord, harmony not understood; All partial evil, universal good. With a heavy heart he turns, and walks homeward to Pasco's home, that has now no master. He had seemed cold when speaking to Fay about his brother's unhappiness, about the woman who had caused it. But in truth his coldness had been nothing to his anger against her. To him there was but one possible view of the case, and that was that she had deliberately ruined his life—had come down there to prey upon society, and secure for the establishment of her lost respectability the first eligible man that offered. Pasco had been that man. He would have laughed aloud if any one had told him now—whatever he might 'have believed before—that Mrs Barrington—or whatever her name was—had ever loved his brother. . . . To him the whole affair was a preconcerted scheme on her part, in which any honest sentiment had no portion whatsoever. He regarded his brother well out of it. and attributed the woman's refusal to marry him to the fact that, her story being known here, the respectability she craved would have been impossible. Nobody would have called, 'his family would decline to receive her. She had thrown up the game at the last moment to the everlasting good of Paseo —if Pasco could onlyhave been brought to see it. But he had not seen it. and had left 'his home yesterday, bound no one knew where, with a heart that seemed broken, and an openly expressed feeling of resentment toward all his family. He had refused indeed to see Sir George, who up to the last moment had made vigorous efforts to get. at him. and explain what really happened. and so break down this terrible barrier that the younger brother had raised between them. Paseo was obdurate, and left home with a dull farewell to Ernest, and a decided intention of leaving no address behind him. No wonder Ernest, who regarded Paseo as his dearest possession—once a little, petulant, charming face was out of the question—felt bitter against Janet Barrington. She was still at The Priory, but was leaving to-morrow. To go where no one knew, beyond the fact that she was bound for London first. After that, according to Ernest's belief, for Monte Carlo or some other foreign place where adventuresses live and thrive—or for the —eventually it would be the latter. His mood is a terribly- bitter one now, as he walks along through the warm woodlands; his brother’s griefs have been as his own. but now a yet more intimate one claims him. Fay’s face as last he saw it, with those two large melancholy- tears stealing down the woe-begone little cheeks, has rendered him almost distracted. They have told their own tale. She loved him. He loved her with all his heart and soul—nothing stood between them but a hateful engagement in which neither of the supposed inter-

ested parties had sunk any heart-capi-tal whatsoever—and yet Well, if she would not have him, he would follow Pasco’s example, and cut this life altogether. Tuesday next his leave would be up. ami he must rejoin his regiment; but he could not live out a detestable existence in a country that contained the being he loved, but who, of her own account, hail determined to render herself inaccessible. Of Jessica he thought little beyond this, that he. would certainly end the farce existing between her and him to-morrow. The very thought of her had grown hateful. And she would probably be glad of her release. He—Ernest — had nothing to offer Iveyond an old name, anti nowadays, an heiress such as Jessica could always be sure of securing that—that it would leave her free to accept, the evident admiration of her cousin. Of course if he—Ernest—had been a man of property, a desirable parti of that sort, it would be impossible now to draw back, but as it is Entering the library, he finds a letter aw-aiting him. Opening it with languid interest, he finds it contains a whole world of excitement. His uncle, an old man living in Devonshire. is dead, and has left him all his property. A clear three thousand a year 1 Severn falls into a chair, and having re-read the letter, gives himself up to despair. With this—with her—what life would have meant ! And now ! Now it is impossible that he should have the small comfort of breaking off his engagement with the other. It is growing toward evening, and Fay, who had spent a. good deal of her afternoon in her own room in tears, has crept down to the small drawingroom, knowing that there solitude at least will be found. The children are all spending the day at a distant place, and Nettie has gone visiting. Not being- the latter’s day At Home, her small sister feels sure of thinking out her sad thoughts undisturbed. Vain hope ! The floor is thrown open and Miss Wilcott is ushered in by one of the servants. Fay, with a little wild thought of hiding her tell-tale eyes, rises hurriedly to greet her visitor, keeping her back well to the light. “ Nettie is- not in,” says she. as cordially as nature will permit. “ But perhaps I may be her substitute for this one day.” “ I'm rather glad she is from home,” says Miss Wilcott, coolly. “It is you I want to see. May I take off these laces ? They are so warm, and I dare say I shall be here for some time.” “ Let me take them off." says Fay. her heart sinking within her. This girl, of all others ! How long is she going to stay ? Nevertheless, she busies herself with the undoing of the laces. " You are not feeling well, are you?” says Miss Wilcott. looking at her sharply. “Oh. yes, quite well, thank you. Did you walk ?” A pause, and then : “Yes; such a lovely day. If you are quite well, at al] events you have been crying." “Do you never cry ?" says Fay. slowly, deliberately, ami with just a suspicion of insolence.

“Never,” says Miss Wilcott. “I’m not a foolish person as a rule. This sounds a little rude, because you evidently have been crying, but in reality it is not so. Very sensible people have been known to give way to folly occasionally. But crying is not in my line. If you want a thing, take itdon't sit crying for it. That is sensible advice, and economical, too. You save your eyes.” “ It sounds a little lawless,” says Fay, laughing in a rather forced fashion. “ May 1 ask what you have l>een appropriating lately ?” “My cousin, Gilbert Wylding,” returns Miss Wilcott, coolly.' “ I finally made up my mi ml to marry him this morning.” There is u long pause. Fay has turned very pale. She would have spoken, but is afraid to trust her voice. Presently, however, she gains once more control over herself. "Surely I heard the truth when 1 was told you were engaged to Captain Severn ?” “The whole truth and nothing but the truth,” with a shrug of her handsome shoidders. “And now, how are you going to I don’t understand you,” says Fay. “A great many people have said that to me off and on,” says Miss Wilcott, carelessly. She smiles curiously a little complacently, and glances at Fay out of her dark, almond-shaped eyes. Never had she seemed so Jewish in the other’s opinion. Dark, handsome. a little crafty, detestable, decides Fay, who, though full of a confused joy, that as yet had hardly grown definite, still feels the indignity shown to her lover. To calmly throw him over like that without a. word or thought! “And Ernest you have not considered him?" she says, warmly. The other looks at- her very straight this time. “Well. I never thought, you a hypocrite,” says she. The blood rushes into Fay's pale cheeks. She grows visibly unnerved, whereupon Miss Wilcott gives way to that peculiar low laugh of hers. "Oh, I think I have considered him,” she says, with a touch of amusement that is not- wholly free of a sneer. “Was I ever so considerate to him l>efore, I wonder? 1 don’t- think he will die of chagrin nr grief over my loss. I really think, on the contrary, that he will feel inclined to kill the fatted calf. He will be now free to—” She pauses, her eyes still fixed on Fay. “Well?” says the latter, with a rather ominous compression of her lips. “To seek consolation elsewhere. What did you think I was going to siay?" laughing again. “Your thoughts are beyond me,” says Fay, rather haughtily. "Yes? Well, yours are not- beyond me. Am I rude again? You thought I was going to say that, he would now seek consolation from you.” Fay rises to her feet, her dark eyes Hashing, her small, shapely head well thrown back. She opens her lips as if to speak, but Jessica, by an imperious gesture, stops her. “There —there. What, is it. all about?” says she, contemptuously. “Why should you be angry because I tell you Ernest adores you? It is 1 who should be angry with you, but.” with a little smile, “I’m not. Did von think I was blind all these weeks?

That I could not see for myself how matters were going? Will you be angry again if I say I rejoiced when I saw you had attracted him? Ernest in love might be bearable (I don’t know) but Ernest not in love is distinctly unbearable! (That I do know.) Come?’ rising, “I wish you joy—though that is more than you wished me.” “You go very far," says Fay, who is almost too angry to speak. "One can only go to a certain limit. I expect I have gone to mine,” says Miss Wilcott. “Good-bye.” She extends her hand, in which Fay places hers, sorely against her will. “You regard me as an enemy plainly,” says Miss Wilcott. always looking a little' amused. “Whereas, in reality, I am the best friend you have ever had. At all events. I have done you the best turn.” This is so true that Fay feels her resentment fall an inch or two. “As for the exploded contract between me and Ernest, that was not our doing. It was a make-up of mamma’s and the old man. Sir George who is dead. I always knew it would come to nothing. It has. however, come to this, which is something. Rut I shall be sorry if it creates me a foe —in you!" She is still holding Fay s hand and is still looking amused. “It may interest you to know that Ernest never made me a lover-like speech in his nfe. There, you surely should be grateful for that!” Perhaps Fay in her heart is g™* l ful. At all events, when Miss Mll- - presses her hand again in a final adieu she returns the pressure, and even goes so far as to see her to the door and watch her across the hall. Then she closes the door again, and. sinking into a chair, lets her face fall forward into her hands. Is it true? Is it true? For a long time she sits like that: thinking—hoping. It seems too good to be real. Then she may really love him, and he may love her? Does he know? She starts to (her feet as this question occurs to her. and after a second’s deliberation, runs out of the room, upstairs, and puts on her hat. It is the work of an instant to run downstairs again, and out of the hall door and across the avenue to the pleasaunee that will lead to the wood beyond. A vague longing to get to him to tell him —is possessing her. From The Elms to where he lives is a rather long crv so late in the evening, but this idea has not occurred to her. Happilv, however, when half-way through her self-imposed journey, she sees a tall, gray-clad figure advancing’ toward her. To give her information as to who that gray-clad figure is would indeed be a loss of time. She stops short, and lifting her tiny hands to her mouth, calls to him across the distance that separates them. “Ernest! Hurry! Hurry! I have something to tell you!” Perhaps he hears her, perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps he, too, has seen her and has something to tell her. at all events, he quickens his pace, and soon is beside her. “Oh!” cries she, “I have such news. You wouldn't guess it—ever! What do you think? Jessica —has —but you shall guess!” “Engaged herself to her cousin, Gilbert Wylding,” replies he, joy looking ont from his eyes. “Ah! you heard!” cries she, distinctly disappointed. “But how? Th s morning you ” “Oh, then I knew nothing. But half an hour ago I got a polite letter from her, touched in the civilest terms, saying she hoped I would release her from her engagement to me. and winding up with the salient hint, that whether I did or not would make no difference, as she had made up her mind to wed her cousin. Who was I,” gaily, “that I should interfere with her mind? I succumbed at once. Lowered my flag without making a single show of fight, and” —he catches Fay suddenly in his arms and presses her tenderly to his heart —“here I am.” They both laugh a little, and perhaps with tears in their eyes. “You are glad?" asks he. presently. *Oh! you know it! And you?” “My darling, need you ask that question?" “Well, you asked it of me.” says she, aggrieved. And then—“ Ernest! what a blessing it is that she should hnve fallen in love with her cousin!”

“I shall owe a debt of gratitude to Gilbert Wylding all my life,” returns he, with fervour. “Yes, I dare say he now ” “Is afraid to meet me,” supplements Ernest, with a laugh. “Thinks he has done me out of my heart’s desire and so on. Oh!” pressing one of her dainty palms to his lips, “if he only knew!” “1 think he will —soon!” says Fay, naively. “How ?” “Because Jessica seems to know. She was very, very rude and—vulgar, I think,” with hesitation. “And she said she had known for weeks that you were in love with me, and I’m afraid.” hanging her pretty head, “that she knew, too, that I had been in love with you for just as long.” “And were you?” cries he, with eager delight. “Oh, Fay! and what a life you led me! Well, you will have to make up for it now.” “So will you,” says she. “What right hod you to get engaged to anybody until I came?” She is laughing, but suddenly she grows very grave. “I am afraid Nettie and Sir George will be angry,” she says. “You see, we have no money, and Nettie says—” “Ah! I had forgotten something else I had to tell you,” says he. “If want of means to marry on is Nettie’s only objection, I can conquer that. Today—an hour after I left you this morning—l received this.” He draws the letter from his pocket that contains the news of his uncle’s death, and gives it to her to read. “You see we shall not be actual paupers,” says he. “It seems too much luck!” whispers she in an awed tone when she has read the letter. Her face has lost its colour. “Too much luck for me, certainly. Not half enough for you!” exclaims he. fondly, pressing her pretty little face against his own. CHAPTER XII. In many a stead Doom dwelleth. nor sleepeth day nor night. It is enough: the end and the beginning Are one to thee, who are past the end. The sun is streaming into a pleasant room in Harley-street. The blinds are all drawn down, but the windows are raised to let in any little passing breeze that may arise, and through them the sounds of distant street pianos, mingled with the eries of news vendors, make their way. The world is a year older. It is once again the 21st of June. Janet Barrington had risen that morning with a full remembrance of that dead, past, sweet day full upon her. All these sad twelve months indeed that now lie behind her she had thought of little else — and always without hope. She had forbidden him to hope, she knew that, but yet —yet. And if he had borne her in memory, would he not have written her a vagrant line now and again—a little sentence ever so short, but long enough to keep her starving soul from death. Where he was all this past year no one knew. Not even his own people. Abroad, was the one address they had to give any friends whose curiosity drove them to ask unwelcome questions. And now that first anniversary of the day that marked the crowning grief of her life has come round. To bring her what? Nothing! As I have said, she felt herself Iv»yond hope, and though some faint stirring as of expectation moved her (when the morning’s post was brought her. still when she found that it contained no word from him she told herself she was not disappointed. She had known! He had learned through ’the wisdom that accrues from a full year that he had had a lucky escape from her. She seldom rises before noon now. There is nothing the matter with h«r, she says, persistently, nothing beyond the fact that she is always tired—tired. This tiring must be a rather dangerous illness in itself, because it has certainly reduced her to skin and bone. Just now. as she walks feebly into this pleasant room, with its shady blinds, she is only a mere shadow of her former self. A lovely self still, but terribly worn, and with eyes that look too large and dark for their pale setting. Her housekeeper, who is still with her. accompanies her. and arranges a comfortable lounge for her amongst the pillows of thx sofa. She has not changed, the «une gaunt woman, with stern features, but earnest eyes now grown terribly watchful. “Sit down here—rest yourself." says she, putting the cushions and address-

ing Janaat, who is wandering from window to window in a slow, languid, idle fashion, to admire, thte banks of flowers that fling their sweet perfume into the room. “In a moment. I like to walk about a little; it does me good, and I feel strangely energetic to-day,” says Mrs Barrington, with a soft laugh. "To-day.” mutters the housekeeper, “you are thinking of that past folly, l expect. I knew how it would be.” “Just for once you are at fa’lt,” says her mistress, shaking her head gently. “That is too old a dream now, Jared, to concern me. It ended this day twelve months.” “Yet you are not looking as well as you were last week,” says the woman, guffly. “Then there seemeil a chance of impovement in you; but to-day!” “Am I so hideous to-day?” with another laugh, more real than the last. “How do I look, then?” “Hl,” says the woman, laconically. “Without blood—without strength—without life.” At this instant the sound of the postman’s afternoon knock makes itself heard. “Get me my letters." says 'Mrs Barrington, a little glad, jerhaps, to end the conversation. The woman presently returns with a small parcel in her hands. A paper box it might be, carefully wrapped round. “Scarcely worth the journey, was it?” says she, handing it to net mistress. Mrs Barrington, taking it, it eagerly. Had she hoped to see foreign stamps, foreign postmarks on it? If so. she must be disappointed. It is all hopelessly English—stamp, postage, everything. No. oh. no! It. could not be from him! The handwriting is unknown to her. This would inaan nothing, as, strange to say, she has never had a letter from Pasco Severn. Their short, sweet love term had shown no interlude where a billet-doux could have come in. H«* had been always so elose to her and she to him. Meetings were all too frequent. Carelessly she drags off the paper covering of the little parcel, disclosing a small cardboard box; carelessly still she lifts the lid of it. The housekeeper has gone over to the window to arrange the drooping petals of a flower, and for a moment silence supreme reigns' in the room. It is broken by a sharp and terrible cry. The woman turns quickly from the injured flower, her face blanched. Mrs Barrington is standing where she has last seen her, an open box in her hand. She is swaying dangerously to and fro. Before the woman can reach her she has fallen forward on her face and hands, a whole shower of purple pansies lie scattered round her head. It is many hours later and dawn is just breaking in the pretty room. I'hey had lifted her when she fell and placed her on the lounge, and there still she lies. She will not be raised from it again until they raise her to place her in her coinn. the doctors nad come in all haste and looked at her, and—weU —there was no hope, ami she must not be moved. It was a mere question of hours, and she must not be moved, whatever happened. The housekeeper, graver and sterner of face than ever, sits motionless beside her, the dying woman's hand in hers. What a beautiful hand! Nature had been bountiful to her, but fate had destroyed nature’s gifts. What use to be perfect in face and form if misery is flung out with a liberal hand to render all joy worthless? The woman lifting her from amongst those dying pansies had known she supported in her arms a flower as beautiful and as near to death as they were. Surely they were an unlucky souvenir. A little note had lain amongst them, and this the housekeeper had read, hoping to give some, comfort to the one creature that on earth she loves, and that creature tying on the borderland of life. It was a tiny note, a mere word or two. “You will remember? Not for one moment have I forgotten. To-morrow early I shall be with you. and then—” It broke off abruptly, but love, real, earnest, passionate, sounded through each Imre word, rendering them all eloquent. To-morrow! That now would mean to-day. The woman shivers as she glances at the slender form on the lounge. Will she last? Will she live until he comes? And even if so. who is to tell him?

Early. What does that mean! Eleven one three, perhaps. Who can say? The cold, sad light of coming day is illuminating the room. As though she feels it the dying woman stirs, and wakes from her lethargy to a last dull dalliance with life. “It is day,” says she, in that strange far-off tone that belongs to those bound for their immediate voyage across the implacable Styx. “Yes.” says the elder woman, pressing the hand she holds. This one word she speaks with difficulty. Another would have been beyond her. She feels choked. “This is to-morrow?" says Janet. "Yes.” “He will soon be here?” “Soon, my dear. Soon, my darling.” "He was true to me.” “Oh. who would not be.” moans the woman. “But keep still, keep quiet. Do not excite yourself.” “I am happy.” says she. with a slow glance upward at the faithful, rugged face above her. He is coming.” “Ay,” says the woman. Sheclaspsthe damp, thin hand more closely. “ And so is Death.” she whispers to herself. There is a long silence. “ You have not put me to bed.” says Mrs Barrington, faintly. “ No. They said you would be better here.” “ Yes.” She seems to think for awhile. “ And, after all. it doesn’t matter, does it ? Only, you will have the trouble of undressing me—afterward!” The woman suppresses the groan that rises to her lips, but she turns very white. Once again the silence is prolonged —intense. Slowly the morning develops. Suddenly a clear sound breaks the stillness. The sharp cry of a little bird. The sparrows are beginning to twitter beneath the roof. “ Do you hear that ?” eries Mrs Barrington, uplifting herself upon the pillows, with a quick, wild energy. Some last uncertain strength seems to be upholding her. “ Oh ! That is life ! Life ! What a little, strange cry ! It is a bird, a bird—but what a funny one. Listen !” She falls back upon her pillows again, and to her companion’s horror breaks into low laughter. Laughter faint enough to be almost inaudible, yet strong enough to shake the dying frame. “Hush! Hush!” “ It is the dawn ! Now the birds awake.” She sighs. Her sudden laughter has left her. “ Birds waken, and people die. I've always heard that one dies at dawn—haven’t you ? Oh !” An agony of fright convulses her lovely face. “ Oh, keep me alive till he comes !” “ There ! There now. He is coming soon. Don’t talk, my dear. That's what wears you. There, now—stay still.” Silence again. The morning deepens. The light grows. Presently all the

birds begin to call to each other, yet the figure lying so motionless takes no heed of them until suddenly : “ Now—now ! ” cries she, excitedly, “ there it is again—don’t you hear it ?” And, indeed, a most miserable little pipe can be heard through all the other twitterings. It is a heartbroken, weak little chirp, and just at this sad moment distressing. “It is calling to me,” whispers Mrs Barrington. “ Calling —calling—W’hat a wretched little voice—like my own now.” She begins to laugh again in the same queer way. until the woman watching her grows almost mad with fear and grief. What a wasting away of the last poor strands of strength ! Suddenly the lovely dying face quivers. The forlcrn mirth dies from it. “Oh. I wish it wouldn’t !” says Mrs Barrington, turning feebly to her companion. “ Oh ! don't let it I” She bursts into tears. Tile housekeeper, rising with a suppressed vehemence, shuts elose the windows that have been left open to give the patient air. and so shuts out the coming sounds of day. Afterwards she sits down again by her charge, and so the day grows. He has entered the room. The housekeeper, rising from her seat beside the dying form, lifts her hand to enjoin calm—quiet. But love is never deaf, and she has heard. She has been seemingly asleep for the last hour : but now she lifts herself with a sudden joyous movement, and holds out her arms to him. Falling on his knees beside her, he buries his face in her gown. “ Darling ! Darling ! Beloved !” whispers she, happily. With one hand she smoothes his bent head ; the other is firmly closed over something, as it has been ever since that fatal moment when she opened the packet. No one had dared to unclasp it, so tightly was it clinched. “That you should have eome !” says she. “Oh ! surely you knew I would come I” “ No. There has always been so much disappointment for me—l did not dare to believe it.” “ You doubted me ?” “ You will forgive me for that now,” says she. with a smile of saddest meaning. “I am paying for my fault. If I had believed, I should not be dying!” “The fault is all mine—l should have written. But you forbid me — and T thought you would know. Janet !" lifting his head, and looking at her wildly, “is it hopeless ?” "Don’t look like that. I am glad of it !” says she. calmly. “And I am happy—happy ! When these came”— she holds out to him her clinched

hand —“when I knew that you had remembered me. in spite of everything. my heart broke. I think, for very joy.” He opens her hand, and there, crushed, withered—dead, lie some of the purple pansies he had sent her. “Dead flowers !” whispers she faintly. “I have killed them Soon I shall be as they are. I told you,” smiling at him softly, “they were for death. But I did not know then that death would lie so sweet.” “Don’t !" says he, hoarsely. “Why not? . . . Had I ever hoped for so good an ending as this? To have you beside me. . . . To She seems to lose herself a little. Passing his arms round her, he draws her to him till her head leans upon his breast —the beautiful head! There is a long, long silence. She has grown very quiet. The laboured breathing has become so gentle that

now he can scarcely hear it. The day has changed, and a soft, light, {tattering rain is falling upon the wiinTow-panles. The terrible monotony of its sound becomes at last unbearable. All at once it seems to him that he cannot hear her breathing at all. He leans dbwrr to look more closely at her; an awful fear clutches at his heart “Janet !” he whispers, loudly. She opens her eyes, and, recognising him. a divine smile lights her face, “You—you>! ” she gasps faintly. “Stay with me. I go ... at last to find rest—peace. . . . Eternal rest. . . . Everlasting peace !” She sights. Suddenly, with a strange strength, she turns herself and slips a hand round his neck. Feebly she tries to get even nearer to him. A violent shiver convulses her frame. “I am cold,” says she. Cold as Death can make her ! She

is indeed, quite dead ! Pasco, numbed. hardly realising, lays her back amongst her pillows. Her eyes are quite closed. She looks lovely. A tiny lock of hair is straying over her temple. He puts it gently into its place—softly, as if afraid of waking her. But she is past all that No storm of life —no grief—no love—can hurt or charm her any more. Somebody has come into the room. There is a sharp cry. It seems to waken Pasco from his dull dream. That woman, there, on her knees lieside her—what is she doing ? And Janet—Janet is silent The dream flies forever ! Janet is dead ! (THE END.)