Copyright Story.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVII, Issue XII, 21 September 1901, Page 532

Copyright Story.

By

G. B. STUART.

Author of “ Maude’s Misadventure,” Etc.

BART I. My wife and I took the chaplaincy at St. Sapinet last August. I make this statement advisedly, for my wife arranges these matters beforehand every year, and even when we reach our destination she is so much more important than I—making friends with the visitors, playing the harmonium on Sundays, and upholding the dignity of the Church of England at every turn —that my part in this loeum-teneney is entirely secondary. It is Angela who organises choir practices on Friday afternoons; Angela who substitutes Hynms Ancient and Modern for cards and theatricals on Sunday evenings; Angela who makes English Church-going the rage among chattering French families and phlegmatic Germans, and fills the offertory bags with strange and somewhat unmarketable coins, from which, however, we produce a net result far in advance of any other summer chaplain’s best endeavours. I am the son of a Bishop, and I never preach beyond ten minutes; I believe I am esteemed and respected at St. Sapinet and elsewhere; but my wife, Angela, is adored wherever the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel lifts a spire through the length and breadth of the Continent.

I do not mean to say that we have occupied all the chaplaincies of this admirable Society; but as the same set of people yearly frequent the same set of places, or circulate to and fro between them, Angela is hoped for, quoted, expected, or deplored according to circumstances. There is no one like her for “keeping the thing going” —this is what is generally said when outsiders ask what is Mrs Serafin’s special attraction. Each one interprets this according to his or her own fancy, but I. who ought to know Angela. as well as anyone on the Continent, having been her wedded husband there and at home for fifteen happy years, must confess that it expresses her vocation admirably. My wife has a wonderful gift for keeping strange people, and their affairs, appearance and belongings, quite straight and unconfused in her memory; this is invaluable to anyone who like myself, both short-sighted and a little absent-minded, is thrown year by year among the same set of people. We had not been at St. Sapinet more than a few hours—arriving after the mid-day dejeuner—than she gives me the carte de pays.

"The Mortons are here, and old Sir Henry Palsfield —her father you know, who was M.P. for Cockletown, and never forgets it. Conservative, do be careful, Henry. All those Anderson girls who were at Saas-Fee —one is a nurse at ’Barts.’; —the Trochners, half Germans—he sings and is very English, and always volunteers to carry the bag in church: the old Baddeleys and Miss Sharpe; and all the LennoxMartyns. Don’t ask that eldest boy if he has passed his Prelim, yet—he wouldn’t be here if he had; and remember, Henry, that Mrs Baddeley knows the Anketells, and likes to talk about them.” My wife is fussing in and out of our two little wood rooms, unpacking and arranging those innumerable photographs, pin-cushions, and d’oyleys, without which she never travels. Presently she announces: “There is a curious looking family at the Chalet—a Count and Countess Sismondi, and a host of wild children, with an English governess, Miss Horting painting by the door, when I ran longs to them somehow: he was sitton, and apparently a young man bedown to post my letters; I never saw the like of him off the stage—such a

fantastic creature. He has an exquisite face, pure Italian in outline and feature, but quite English in colouring. I can’t think where he comes in at all,” Angela concluded musingly. "The Sismondis’ footman.” 1 murmur. I have got hold of the latest "Tauchnitz.” and feel that the occupants of the Chalet will keep. They, are generally considered a cut above the ordinary Hotel monde, being not infrequently a foreign family of distinction who keep themselves to themselves (tacitly considered a recommendation in all classes of society) and do not mix with the rank and file at the hotel, or swear any allegiance to the English chaplain. Later on in the evening, after Angela had received the senile compliments of Sir Henry Palsfield, the embraces of the Anderson girls, the fulsome adulation of old Miss Sharpe, the schoolboy adoration of the Len-nox-Martyn horde, and Mrs Baddeley’s minute enquiries after the Anketells, whom neither she nor we had met for the last ten years, my wife came up to our rooms with the information that the theatrical young man was Count Sismondi’s son by his first wife —an English lady—that he had left; the Italian army through ill-health, and devoted himself to painting; that he condescended to speak to nobody outside the Chalet, and would be no loss, the Anderson girls averred, when he left with his father and stepmother, as he was expected to do, in a few days’ time. "The Sismondis are going south. The Countess thinks this place damp and dull, and she has no priest to her liking. Old Father Pattipart is too awfully bourgeois for anything. Thu son, it appears, is Protiestant, and comes to Church now and again with the governess and the little step-sisters —a queer arrangement altogether, isn't it.” “Not half so queer as your finding it all out in such a jiffy,” I reply. “I know you respect yourself too highly to ask questions. Pray how did you get all this family history of the Sismondis?” “Oh, just by listening,” my w;ife replied, “by listening'. The Anderson girls are plainly piqued a bit and seem to talk of nothing else. Perhaps Miss Horton, the governess, is handsome, dass kann sein. I only’ saw her back

crossing the garden. They all dine at the Chalet, and do not seem to mix with us at all.”

But next day we proved that Angela's conjecture was vain, for Miss Horton, the Sismondis’ governess, appeared in church, straight, tall, almost masculine looking, thirty or more, and severely occupied with aherd of impish Italian children, whose extremely irreverent behaviour during the service suggested that their attendance was rather that of enforced discipline than of voluntary devotion. “I shall make friends with Miss Horton, and tell her that it is no good bringing uncivilised brats like that to Church, spoiling the service for other people,” Angela announced. Angela is a veritable Mrs Proudie as regards the Church temporarily under her care, and was quite capable of excluding the Sismondi horde, if she thought fit; but somehow her usual tactics, known as "making friends,” failed with Miss Horton, and on the eve of another Sunday she was obliged to confess that the dark faced governess had given her no single opportunity of exercising them. “Perhaps when the Count and Countess go she will come amongst us more. They have a carriage waiting, Mi’ Morton says, and are only stopping till the weather settles, for they are going to drive over the pass into Italy.” “Does Master Julius go too?” “Oh yes. He would scarcely remain behind with the governess and the children.” “I did not know.” Perhaps I say this rather meaningly, for my wife looks at me in astonishment. She can hardly believe that I can add a shred of gossip on my own account to the handsome fabric which she yearly weaves out of our foreign holiday. "What do you mean?” she asked. "Only that I stumbled upon Count Julius and Miss Horton down by the waterfall this afternoon, and if they were not —well you must excuse me if I use the expression ‘sweet-hearting’ : —I must have altogether forgotten in what that performance consists.” "Henry! You don’t mean it? Are you sure it wasn’t Bella Anderson and Jack Lennox-Martyn? I believe they are engaged again. Or it might have been old Sir Horace and Miss Sharpe. I’ve always said she would be Lady Palsfield one of these days and you are so short sighted, you know, you cannot be trusted.” “Very well, then, I was mistaken,” I say stiffly, for after all short-sight-ed people, if they look near enough, can sec just as minutely as anyone, and I take up my book to close the matter. “But what did you see, Henry, dear?” Angela goes on. and. of course, I am obliged in the end to let her have it all. “Coming home this evening rather late for dinner, I took the short cut by the waterfall, and came plump on Miss Horton and Master Sismondi — her back was towards me, and she

had her hands on his shoulders; _ust as 1 descended right upon them, she had stooped down and kissed him.--you know she is considerably the taller 1 just caught sight of his face—as impassive as a cameo-he is wonderfully handsome, and looks dreadfullv ill.” *. i » "The wretch!” cried Angela, what did von do. Henry ? How did the horrid creature look when she saw you had recognised her and her miserable victim?” , “My dear Angela, do be temperate. Why should there be a Creature and a Victim in th'e matter, and why should not these young people be engaged as surely —or a great deal more so, I jj O pe— a s your young friends. Bella and .lack?' I assure you I made no objection to their philandering—there is nothing to that effect laid down in the Society’s rules for the Chaplaincy. I just passed on jny wav as if I had observed nothing. ’ “But you will say something? You won’t let that pretty, delicate boy little more than a fantastic lad. tricked out in his absurd velvet blouse and scarlet cap, fall into the clutches of that hard-featured, middle-aged woman. with her fierce eyes and striding wavs?” My wife’s descriptions were not always coherent, but she caught at salient points and used them with considerable effect. “Your pretty, delicate boy is certainly over age.” I ventured to remark. “and I decline to interfere in his love affairs, at all events at present.” Whereupon my wife closed the door between' our two rooms, and began to pull out all her drawers at once. For myself I am ready to admit that I am short-sighted, and ab-sent-minded. and do not know men and women as she does, but all the same T eould not see that this evident inferiority justified me in separating a young couple ■with whom I had never in my life exchanged a word, and I determined for the present to leave them alone. Next day there was a break in the weather, which for nearly a week had been misty and cold, and as we sat in our balcony, my wife sketching and I reading a ten days’ old “Spectator.” we saw a big travelling carriage laden with luggage, emerge from the back premises of the Chalet and take up its stand at the front entrance. “1 believe the Sismondis are off,*’ said my wife, edging her camp stool a little further forward. “Yes, here’s

the old Count, and the Countess with her head tied up, of course. How Gerard is bowing, to be sure—l wonder if they’ve given very enormous tips? Now, do you think Count Julius will go or will that Creature? Ah, there he is, and not a sign of her anywhere; 1 daresay the poor lad is taking advantage of her being out with the children to slip off with his parents. If he is with them, my mind is easy about him, for. of course, the affair with the Creature is all under the Bose! There now, they’re off. I declare, I breathe more freely to think he is safe,” and with a masterly brush full of cobalt. Angela began to wash in a hopeful sky such as one might almost expect on the morrow. Me sat peacefully silent for some time, perhaps an hour; the usual afternoon stillness had fallen on St. Sapinet; the mountains all round were beginning to look hard and pronounced in the low horizontal sunshine; and the pines had tips of gold down one side and thick black edges on the other. All the visitors were away on exoursions, or else making surreptitious tea in their bedrooms, with the aid of an “Etna,” and some smuggled milk. Suddenly a noise of bells on a travelling carriage, of a cracking whip, and a chiruping driver woke the gravel expanse below us to life; the big St. Bernard darted forward with an uncouth yawn of welcome; some one rang the tocsin at the front door of the hotel, which was unfortunately hidden from our sight; M. Gerard, our proprietor, who had been dozing in a summer-house since the Simondis’ departure, ran cut. hat in hand. Simultaneously with all this, a flight of the Anderson girls, who had been sitting with their novels and their tea-kettle among the pines opposite, broke covert, and came rushing down hill, waving their handkerchiefs: “I can’t see anything with that tiresome door round the corner” (she spoke as if the architecture of the hotel was seriously at fault), "but I’m very much mistaken if that doesn’t all mean that Cherry Degrey has arrived.” Angela’s instincts are as true as a Red Indian’s; without doubt it was Cherry Degrey. Of course, there was dancing in the salon that evening, and the next, and the next; there always is when Cherry comes. Mr. Trochner. my excellent German Jew churchwarden, waltzes like a fairy, in spite of his pronounced white waistcoat; the Lennox-Martyn boys like to blunder and stamp through the barn dance: some stray Oxford men. and a tutor in blue glasses turn up from somewhere, in murderous boots, and Angela plays the piano most good-naturedly from eight till eleven. Da Capo on the following evening, when, to my intense astonishment, young Sismondi, in evening dress, suddenly makes his appearance after dinner. I see him greeting Cherry Degrey. and they allude laughingly to having passed each other on the road yesterday; he adds something in a lower voice which makes her blush, and then, as my wife begins Doctrinen. having an old-fashioned repertoire of German waltzes that used to be in vogue before we married, he slips his arm round her pretty slim waist and they start.

Cherry may be eighteen—that is what her looks say. or fifty-eight—-that is judging by her worldly wisdom and knowledge of the ways of men; but she seems to like dancing with Count Julius and to be somewhat accustomed to the exercise: “they knew each other in Rome,” Mrs. Morton informs me, “they used to dance a good deal together last winter at the Palazzo Palfi. I remember the young man now that I see him closer. He is very handsome, but I did hear that he had to leave his regiment through ill-health. I’m sure he ought not to be dancing those fast round dances—couldn’t you give him a hint, dear Mr. Serafin:” “Good gracious, madame,” I exclaimed. “do you think that an English chaplain is a Russian Tsar? You ask me to stop the young man waltzing. and Angela requests me to ” Fortunately I walked hurriedly away without saying what Angela requested. From the music stool my wife beckons vigorously with her eyebrows, and a jet dragon-fly whieh surmounts her chignon, both hands being engaged. “What has brought him back? What

do you think. Henry? Couldn’t you speak to him, and find out whether he is going to stay? I could, if only I weren’t tied to this piano." she whispers. "Of course, it’s Cherry Degrey, don’t tell me that, as if you had just made a discovery, but what will the Creature say? This will put an end to her influence, and that poor boy will be saved from a most unworthy entanglement—you can’t think how glad I am!” And down came my wife’s fingers on an arpeggio passage, in which she seemed to accentuate the triumph of innocence over treachery, and celebrate the emancipation of a Victim from the toils of a Creature. I looked across at Master Julius, who had stopped with his partner just opposite. She was panting a little, and put up her hand to her throat with a tell-tale gesture, but her eyes were shining brilliantly, and his conversation—half English, half Italian, in the style which the cosmopolitan Cherry affected —was rapid and animated. He looked like the living presentment of the cold cameo-faced youth, whose face I had seen over Miss Horton’s shoulder that day in the wood.

“I am glad it is no part of the Chaplain’s duty to tell that young man either to stop waltzing or to stop flirting,” I said to myself, while Angela whispered imperiously: “For heaven’s sake, Henry, don’t stare at the poor things like that! It is a perfect marvel to me that you’ve lived with me fifteen years, and haven’t learnt yet to finesse in the smallest degree! ” "I nder the circumstances it is not necessary.” I reply. PART 11. The morning after the dance at which Cherry Degrey and Count Julius Sismondi were so conspicuous, Angela and I had decided to give the little church a thorough dusting and tidying. IVe escaped there soon after breakfast, dodging several of my wife’s girlish adorers, who would have given anything to have joined us in our work. The Church at St. Sapinet is a little barn of a building —whitewashed, pine-seated, meagrely and hideously furnished — the pride of M. Gerard's heart as the crowning attraction of his excellent hotel to an English community. Some grateful visitor has supplied cushions, altar cloth and markers of Pompeian red serge; others have given scanty magenta curtains to screen off a vestry corner; an immense quantity of hymn books, prayer books. and chant books, bound in shiny American cloth, have been presented from time to time by

generous societies. "I believe that Hymns Ancient and Modern increase and multiply when you leave them alone." I observed to my wife, as I unlock the door, "and “And bring forth a whole litter of little appendices," Angela finishes briskly, at which 1 reprove her for flippancy, and we step into Church, in a flocxl of greenish-white light from the three ugly Methodistical windows on either hand. 1 have a dustpan and brush hidden in a corner, and Angela takes an old cloth to the interstices of the harmonium: we are both hard at work when the door creaks warninglv. and two persons enter, closing it carefully behind them; they are Count Julius Sismondi and Miss Horton. For a moment I continue my brooming, for a visit of curiosity to the English Church —especially when the Chaplain is occupied in straightening it—is no uncommon thing among the foreigners at St. Sapinet; they are naively inquisitive about our services, and ask all sorts of childish questions. But this couple had come with a special purpose. Miss Horton walked straight up the little narrow aisle, passing Angela without a glance; young Sismondi sidled behind her, swaggering a bit, and carrying himself somewhat defiantly; they both stepped inside the Communion rails, coming close up to where I was, and the lady stood a little aside to give her companion the opportunity of speaking first. “Mr Serafin,” Sismondi began, “we have come to you on a little piece of business, and as we wished it to be private, we took this opportunity of

“Will you step outside the Communion rails, if you please,” I interrupted, almost pushing them before me. I chanced to look at Miss Horton’s face; a spasm of fierce annoyance crossed it in a flash —as if even that moment’s delay angered her. Perhaps she knew that the young man spoke with effort, for when I motioned them into a front pew, on the opposite side to the harmonium which Angela polished assiduously, apparently regardless of all sublunary affairs, and seated myself beside them, Sismondi’s hurried beginning seemed to have dried up, and after a glance at him, and at me, it was Miss Horton who said bluntly, “Count Julius and I wish to be married quietly, and as soon as possible; do you know what formalities are required? We are both of age, and both Protestants; we should like you to apply for a license, and perhaps you can tell Count Sismondi what

local authorities will have to be communicated with?" I felt the little wooden church almost rock under my feet. If Miss Horton had asked me to attend her and Count Julius to their execution I could not have been more utterly dumbfounded, but I tried to look unmoved with a view to learning- more. Just across the aisle I could hear Angela scrubbing at the brass of the pedals with her duster: she was on her knees, and her back towards us, but I hoped she could catch Miss Horton's words—would she ever believe me if not? Though I am sure I did not look across, the governess’s sharp dark eyes seemed to read my mind. “Mrs Serafin is not likely to talk, is she?” she asked abruptly, “I do not know- if she has overheard you,” I replied stiffly, “but in no case is she likely to talk of business affairs which do not concern her." She offered no apology, but the young man grew- suddenly red; he began to speak again hastily and as if he were saying a lesson by rote: "It is as Miss Horton has explained, Mr Serafin, we are anxious to be married here, and within the next few days if possible—as soon, that is, as the license can be sent from England. To-day is Wednesday: we might write by this afternoon's post and have a reply by Monday next: I suppose there is no difficulty at Doctors’ Commons if the fees are all en regie? If you will tell me what to say in my application, and will also make the necessary inquiries of the Syndic at Geneva, or of the English Consul, we shall be very much obliged to you. Of course, all expenses —” he fidgetted with his red artist’s cap. and left me to infer that he was willing to pay generously for mv services. I hardly credited my eyes and ears, but I would not let the sharp eyes of Miss Horton guess at mv surprise. Angela told me afterwards that I carried it off as though I were in the habit of solemnising doubtful marriages on Swiss mountain tops any dav of the vear; but while the bridegroom talked in this un-English, perfunctory voice. I kept asking myself if he were really the same man who had waltzed the evening before with Cherry Degrey in the hotel salon —this furtive, unreadv youth, with the pale mask of a face.’ its very regularity of outline and delicate colouring giving a suggestion of moral weakness, beside the rugged, irregular features of his companion. Somehow the disagreeable interview terminated abruptly—Sismondi seemed to have nothing more to say. Miss Horton, perhaps had more, but refrained from savimr it. I said I would think over the matter, and consult a book on the subject of marriages in foreign countries. I had not had occasion to celebrate one before. In reply to some suggestions of mine about parents knowledge and consent. Miss Horton interrupted brusquely, explaining that she was an orphan and that Count Julius Sismondi had inherited his English mother's fortune, and was in no way dependent on his father: this was not quite what I meant, but I did not trouble to say more. I wanted time to think the matter out and to consult with—not my Manual of Chaplain's Duties —but with Angela : if a marriage in the little church was legal—all formalities of Swiss law having been complied with —I could not see on what ground I could refuse to marry this ill-assorted couple. A mountain wedding had taken place last year in the similar little church of Chateau D’Eux; no doubt the thing was to be done, and possibly I should have to do it. I promised to see Sismondi again in the course of an hour or so. when I should have looked up the necessary form of application for the license, and with il-concealed relief I bowed the ‘contracting parties’ out of church. Angela had risen to her feet, in wildest excitement, as I hurried back to the

harmonium. “Well?” I asked—and I knew what her first word would be. “That Creature! she is hypnotising himintoit! you mustn’t do it, Henry, whatever happens!" “I hope not, but ” “But whnt? You surely see no good in the wretched affair? and no one

ean compel you to lift a finger to anything so disgraceful!” "What I was going to say was that I like the Creature better than I do your friend the Victim. She is in earnest —he is not; that is all.”

Angela and I argued this point, and discussed many others bearing upon the strange affair on our way back to the hotel: and we spent most of the afternoon in our little bedroom balcony. turning the matter this way and that, but failing to come to an agreement. Though I am quite ready to acknowledge that she has quicker intuitions about personal character, and is altogether more observant than L I could not. on this occasion, adopt her opinions, as I so often did after she had explained them. In vain she pointed out that- Miss Horton was older, cleverer, and more desperate than young Sismondi. that she had something to gain by an alliance with the young nobleman, while he had nothing; that he must have been cajoled, trapped, perhaps hypnotised into some promise of which he now repented. She seemed to have reason on her side, and yet—for all my short sightedness—l had seen something different. I had seen in the eyes of the mi.ddle aged, masterful governess a look of real yearning affection, a tension of feeling that almost frightened me. while the face of Count Julius had merely simulated an anxiety which he did not feel. When T told Angela this she cried out immediately that that was an argument for her view of the case —and so logically it was —. but. for once. I threw over logic (which my congregation will bear me witness I do not often!) and stuck to it that- the lady, at least, vias playing fair, and the gentleman was, I instinctively felt, doing the very reverse! But what was the good of arguing about an instinct—especially as we could get no further until the ill-assorted pair chose to move? Meanwhile, I routed among my books for a handbook of chaplain’s duties, and gathered therefrom some hints on solemnising marriages in foreign countries, not very valuable in themselves, but sufficient to talk over with Count Julius, when he should come, as he had arranged to do. to submit for my approval the application to Doctors’ Commons. A tap at my door announced him about four o’clock, half an hour before post time; Angela slipped away into her own room, and he held out his letter for inspection: it was written in rather pedantic language, but otherwise was en regie.

I told him so. and for a few minutes we discussed the points that I had elucidated respecting the necessary formalities. He listened absently. and made some suggestion that I should go down to Geneva and put affairs in train there, awkwardly hinting again that money need not be considered: I did not decidedly agree to this, and he still stood leaning against my window frame as if he had something further to add. “You will be late with your London letter.” I said to recall his attention, “that would never do, would it? The post-bag closes at half-past four.”

“To be sure that would never do— Emilia would never forgive me,” he answered. Then, pulling himself together, and speaking low and hurriedly he went on, “Mr Serafin, you are a man of the world, and of experience, you must see that all is not right here, that I am not a free agent. Emilia holds letters of mine that I cannot go against; once I give her this license, she will yield them to me. I must continue to play this horrible farce, and appear to have engaged your help—but what is to hinder you from writing to my father and disclosing the whole affair? He would be furious. He would rush back and dismiss Emilia, and drive her away without a moment's notice; I should have the letters by then, and I should be free! You will disarm Emilia by appearing to further the marriage. She will give me the letters when she is satisfied that all is going on as she desires; as soon as I have them securely, you will telegraph to the Count, my father, that you hnve your suspicions of an entanglement. He believes that I returned to meet again Miss Degrey, whose carriage we passed on the Geneva road—you will ——"

“You are taking for granted that I am as big a villain as yourself,” I almost shouted. It was the first moment that I could edge in a word, for his rapid Italian manner was difficult to stem, though his words were English. “You are making a fine mistake if you think I am going to take any part in such a business as this! Not only are you deceiving and betraying that wretched woman with your lying promises, but you are coolly scheming to deprive her of her good name, of her means of livelihood. of her character for ever. Who will take a governess who has been turned away at a moment’s notice for intriguing with her employer’s son? And to rescue love letters that you once wrote her. you pitiful mean rascal, you would—No! I won’t fight you. you cur.” for he suddenly drew himself up in a fury, as my words went home, and flung out with one arm. dashing a little vase of flowers to the ground, “but I'll kick you downstairs if you don't leave my presence this minute, and all the hotel shall know why!” I threw myself past him. and opened the door wide. I tossed his application to Doctors’ Commons after him: “You may send that or leave it.” I said, “but you need not look to me to help you if you get fifty licenses!” He picked up the paper. Some people were coming down the passage, and he was obliged to appear civil. "At least you will be honourable enough to say nothing to Emilia?” he had the effrontery to add. “What do you know about honour?" I retorted, without troubling to lower mv voice, “I shall do as I

choose about that!” and 1 banged the door behind him.

“Oh, Henry, what a dreadful, dreadful scene!” cried Angela, bursting in. “I looked through the hinge all the time—you wouldn’t mind, I know —and you behaved quite beautifully! Henry, for once you were right and I was wrong. He is the Creature, and that wretched woman is the A’ictim.”

What to do next with regard to Miss Horton was, I confess, a puzzle. It was cruel to let her suppose that the preparations for the marriage were being proceeded with — yet I thought it most probable that Count Julius would keep up the farce and have a final try for the letters which he thought worth all this lying. I could only hope that time might bring counsel, and that I might not meet Miss Horton until I had come to some conclusion as to my line of conduct. Fortunately she kept very much apart with the children at the Chalet, and did not even take dinner at the Hotel, so I might escape meeting her for a little, unless she intentionally sought me out. Then, whatever I said, it could not be that the wedding arrangements were in progress! That evening there was again dancing in the salon. My wife played for a little while, then excused herself on the plea of a headache, and asked Mrs Baddeley to take her place, joining me where I sat outside on the terrace smoking. "He has come in, Henry, and I could not stop in the same room with him!” she whispered; “he is smiling and self-satisfied —all in evening dress, with a rose in his buttonhole—: he is buzzing round Cherry De grey and her aunt, and talking as if he had not a care in the world. Do

you think he can have got the letters? The miserable wretch! When I think of that poor creature living over at the Chalet in her fool’s paradise—” my wife’s voice broke; the word she had used to describe Miss Horton was the same as before, but her accent on it was different.

The music inside stopped with a crash. "What has happened?” cried Angela, darting through the French window into the salon. A little crowd was gathered round someone, something on the floor. Mr Trochner was holding Cherry Degrey in his arms; Mr Morton and Jack LennoxMartyn were trying to raise a prostrate figure, which Mrs Baddeley was aimlessly flapping with a newspaper, under the impression that she was supplying fresh air. My wife knelt down" "Don’t try to raise him,” she said authoritatively, “the less exertion the better.” Then she slipped her hand under the lapel of his coat, and a moment later, lifting her eyes to Mr Morton’s face, gave him a look which he understood. Somehow the room was cleared of the girls and ladies. The Count's best chance was air and perfect quiet, Morton said, driving them all before him, and when Angela and half a dozen gentlemen were left we lifted the poor lifeless body on to the sofa, and straightened the limbs and closed the eyes which but ten minutes before had been sc gay among us all. Again I saw my wife slide her hand in the dead man’s breast, and this time she drew out a delicate gossamer handkerchief, worked with a coronet, and covered the white mask, that already looked like a face earved in stone. “Heart,” said Morton laconically, “they used to say so in Rome last winter, and he was ordered never to

dance, or hurry, or get excited, but I suppose he felt better, and forgot the warning. Someone must write to the father, or go —by George, there is the governess and the children at the Chalet! Poor things, a terrible shock for them —is there any necessity, do you think, Serafin, to tell them before to-morrow? By this time they’ll all be in bed, and it isn’t as if the tie were a very close one.”

“I will undertake to tell Miss Horton and the poor little step-sisters,” Angela volunteered, “if Monsieur Gerard sees that the news is not taken to them before I can go over to the Chalet at eight o'clock," and then Gerard, and the doctor from the village, and the two gensd’armes took possession of the Salon, and began locking and sealing the doors, and writing depositions in their notebooks, and by degress we found that there was nothing more for us to do or say, and we melted away from the scene of the tragedy to our own rooms.

"Look here,” said my wife, when we were alone' together. “I don’t know what you will say, but I took these, and I know I did right.” She held up a little shabby packet of old letters, tied with a narrow ribbon. They were in their foreign covers, and as I peered closer I read, “Miss Horton, Poste Restante,” on the outside one. “You didn’t?” “I did, and I maintain that I was right. You heard what those policemen said about searching his pockets. Think of the talk, the scandal, if these had been found with her name on them! It came suddenly into my head that he had them. Such inspirations are not sent for nothing, and when I took out his handkerchief I slipped them out too, and into my pocket. No, it wasn’t robbing the dead. The letters are Miss Horton’s, and to-morrow I shall take them to her. Please don’t say anything more, for I know I have done the wisest and the kindest thing.” I do not think I had said very much, and I certainly said nothing more. Next morning my wife and I went across to the Chalet at eight o’clock, and I waited while she went in alone. She was to call me if I were required, that is, if poor Miss Horton's grief took a violent form. As for the children we did not expect them to feel much. for they and their English brother had little in common In about twenty minutes Angela returned. There had been no scene. The governess had been wonderfully self-controlled. I could almost fancy that visit to the Church yesterday was a dream, only when she took the letters she suddenly looked at me with her face all altered and smiling, and said, ’He did love me, you see. Sometimes he flirted with other women, but I was his real love, for all that, and yesterday he wrote for the license for our marriage.’ Something like that she said, poor thing! Poor thing! And though I burst out crying she did not shed a tear.”

I took Angela back to the Hotel and made her lie down quietly in her room for the rest of the morning. Later on I saw Miss Horton, and she asked me in a dry. businesslike wav to telegraph and stop the license. “There is no need now for that matter ever to come out. I should like to stay with the children, and Count Sismondi need never know anything which might annoy him and alter his feelings towards his son.” There was sense in this, and I acted on the suggestion without saying a word to anyone. My telegram was in time to cancel the letter, and a letter of explanation following closed the whole affair.

On the following day Count Sismondi arrived and carried his son’s coffin down to Geneva. There was some talk of holding a funeral service nt our own little church, but rather to my relief the idea was abandoned. God knows I did not grudge the poor fellow our prayers, nor his family any possible comfort, but the idea was distasteful to me, though only Angela knew why. and I was pleased that it was not carried out. Miss Horton and the children left with the Count. The Countess was nervous, it appears, and could not bear her children to be out of her sight. Our hotel party melted away somewhat rapidly. Cherry Degrey and her Aunt being the first to

set the example of leaving. The girl had suffered a great shock ami gave herself almost the airs of a newlymade widow. By degrees I saw all my congregation disappear in different directions. Monsieur Gerard was in despair. The Chalet empty, the Hotel almost deserted, his season ruined by this desolating catastrophe! But the next week end a large party of Americans came down from the Tete de Loup, which had closed for the season, and the shutters were thrown open again, and the piano in the salon was once more in requisition. In these come-and-go places even tragedies like the sudden death of Julius Sismondi soon slip out of mind, and a fortnight later only Angela and I remained to remember the strange, sad episode, to whose strangest, saddest side we alone held the key. But for a long while Angela's eyes would fill with sudden tears at the recollection of Miss Horton's face as she took the packet of letters that Julius Sismondi had written her. "Thank God. Henry, she never knew that he was false! Perhaps, after all. fate has been kind to her. poor creature.”