The Man Who Paid

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIV, Issue 24, 17 June 1905, Page 8

The Man Who Paid

By

Mrs. C. N. Williamson

Author of "The Barn Stormers," Etc.

SYNOPSIS OF’ INSTALMENTS I.—II. Lady Weuwick is waiting impatiently iu her boudoir for Lord Staiufortli. a young inau with whom she has. unknown lu herself fallen deeply in love. He has lost his way iu the thick fog. where he is of service to Consuelo Vail, the daughter of an old friend of Lord Wen wick’s, as she is on her way to visit the latter. Together they go to a tea-shop, until the log has cleared up. when tney proceed to their destination, arriving extremely late. Owing to the non-arrival of her luggage. Consuelo is unable to attend a ball given by Lady Wenwick. but watches the dancing from a musicians’ balcony. After the ball she involuntarily overhears a conversation between Lady Wenwick and Lord Stainforth. in which the former announces that Lord Wenwick has been dead for some hours, and further confesses that she has poisoned her husband, in order to be free to marry Lord Stainforth. He. on learning the fearful truth, leaves the house, horrified, whilst the murderess totters to her room, whence a fearful fascination draws her to her husband’s death-bed. upon which she falls, with a terrribie cry. repentant. There is no suspicion that Lord Wenwick’s death arose from any but natural causes; the knowledge of the crime being confined to Consuelo and Lord Stainforih. who blames himself so sever* ly for his conduct towards Lady Wenwick as to offer to marry her. which offer, however, she refuses. as having been prompted not by love for her. but by his sense of culpability. Lady Wenwick seeks refuge from her remorse in a convent, whilst Staiuforth. having ent* red the Church, is appointed vicar of the parish in which Consuelo lives, though, owing to his change of name, she is unaware of his identity until attending service. Consuelo, though she had only met Loid Stainforth on her visit to London, and then only for a few hours, is so moved by the r» membrance of him. and by his appearance, as to gently refuse an offer of marriage from Sir Anthony Wyndham, an old friend of her father’s. She does not meet Stainforth. for he has determined that a part of his atonement shall consist in avoiding th*- society of his equals, concentrating all his efforts on bettering the conditions of the poor. He lives a life of the sternest self-denial, ami whilst engaged iu thinking out a sermon, by which he hopes to settle a strik amongst the fisherfolk, he is startled by hearing a tapping at his study window. CHAPTER X. IN THE RED LIGHT. Again came the knocking, ami it st * med to Stainforth that an imploring voice mingled with the wailing of the wind. There was but one window in the study, a great bow window at the far eml of the room, opening in four parts, like doors. He slipped back a bolt. and. such was the force of the storm, that the glass door burst open of itself, ami a cloaked figure almost fell into the room. Lam-e caught and supported it. as it stumbled forward, dripping water on the polished wood of the uncarpeted floor. “Thank heaven I made you hear at last!” panted a woman's voice: and. flushing back the soaked hood of her long cloak, a girl looked up into the vicar s “Jenny Garth!” he exclaimed. “Why. what’s the matter? Worse trouble at home ?” I will Im* the worst ever conn* to us yet. if you can’t stop it. sir: and if you can’t, no one can.” At tin- last words she choked, then broke into heavy sob bing. her face hidden between two brown hands. Lance la ill his on her heaving shoulder. “Let me help you lay off your cloak, and I’ll light the tire.” he said. "You mustn’t take cold and ill on top of all. N’<;w. try and tell me what has happened. It is something serious. I know, to make you cry like this. Jenny, for you are a brave girl.” “It is the thing that’s going to happen. I’m afraid of.” the young woman faltered. dashing away tears. “Father and

Dick West have made up their minds to punish the Squire for his work against us all. and to-night's the time fixed for it.” ’’W hat are they going to do?” asked Stainforth quietly, though a spark had kindled in his dark eyes. “Fire his house. think what that means in this wind, sir! The rain won’t help much, the way they mean to set to work, for the tire 11 have too big a start before the water gets a chance to quench it. Oh. 1 prayed them on my bended knees not to do what they'll repent their lives through, ana 1 told Dick that if he went for such work, even if he escaped arrest. I'd never be his wife. But father shut my mouth, and neither would listen. They wouldn't for worlds have lut’d me hear the plan: it was by accident 1 did: and when 1 couldn't stop them from going I threatened I'd warn the police, but they knew well I'd never do that. 1 couldn't betray my own father and Dick. They're mad. sir. not wicked at heart. That’s why I've run to you to save them from themselves—and poor Miss Consuelo. too. The Squire’s nothing to me. He's been hard and cruel, so we all think, but 1 wouldn’t have harm come to her. I can trust you to do something. I know, without hurting my two men. You wouldn t give them away any more than 1 would?' “No. 1 won't do that.*’ said Lance, “for you're right. Trouble and the wish for revenge has set tire to their brains. No one need know you came to me. Rest for a few moments, and then you had better go home. I must leave you now, and do the best I can.” “You’ll make haste, and warn the Squire, sir. that the house is burning? It will be burning by this time. You see. I dared not go myself. The truth might be suspected, and anything but that! So 1 thought of vou. and—there's been all this delay.” “There shall be no more.” returned Lance. He did not wait to tin ! his overcoat. nor did he even think of it, but snatching up his clerical hat which lay on a table, he went out by the window -at which Jenny Garth, the fisherman's daughter, had come in live minutes ago. It was a long walk from the vicarage on the headland to Pelham Vail’s house, which stood almost as far from the village on the west as the vicarage did on the east. It was nearer by a mile to the Garth cottage, and it was of this fact that Lance thought as he ran. rather than walked, his face set against the wild wind. The tire brigade a Lurlwin Cove watwenty years behind the times, and Stainforth did not hope much from its quickness or efficiency in a crisis. His In’art was beating fast, and not wholly from the speed he made. He thought of Consuelo Vail, thought of her sleep ing. unconscious of danger. He saw her face as clearly as on the first day when she had come into his life, only m go out again, like some fair star swallowed up in the blackness of a cloud. IL* knew the house well, though he had never crossed its threshold. Often, he passed it. offering himself some reasonable excuse for taking that way to reach a destination attainable more ea-il\. He knew the look of each sm-.iL-paned. old-fashioned window, half hid den behind oaks and copper ibeeches. which had been trained into strange -ha|M*s by the sea winds. Sometimes he had caught himself wondering which was Consuelo's window, and had hastened to turn his thoughts to other things. He wondered again now. As he came to the gate, set in a thick hedge of holly, the low. irregular building was cut blackly against the

dark and stormy sky. There was no light anywhere, and Lance began to hope that Jenny Garth had, been mistaken or that the young fisherman and the old one had changed their minds at the last moment. He paused, hesitating to disturb the peace of tire sleeping house. What if those within were in no peril, ■after all, and lie should rouse them, at this hour, on a false alarm? ■Standing inside the gate, unconscious that he was eold and drenched with the stinging ram. suddenly he saw a red light leap up in one of the dark windows of the. east wing, as if a closed eye had suddenly Hashed wide open in tierce ■anger. He hesitated no more, but sprang up the path, and then, when it ■wound between trees, crossed the sodden lawn with swift steps. Loudly lie struck the old fashioned brass knoekei. which he had never touched before. Twice, thrice, he brought it down, but there was no answering sound within tile house. All was as still. Save for the moaning of the wind, as in the charmed forest otf the Sleeping Beautv. where no storm ever came. Again Stainforth knocked and shouted loudly, but only the storm answered, and the light it, the wide bow window was red and vivid now. There was but one thing to do. and Lance did it. He gave up his hope of

rousing the bleepers from the outside, and determined to get into the house. He would not break into the window of the room where the tire was. lest the draught should rush to the aid of the Hame; but going to one on the other side of the door, he wrapped a handkerchief around his knuckles and smashed a pane of glass with his clenched fist. With a sharp, jingling noise the pane fell in. and Lancethrusting his hand into the open space, found the bolt which held in place the two glass doors. He slid it back, pushed open the long. French window, and stepped into the" dark and quiet room. Even here, the acrid odour of wood-smoke had penetrated, and it stung Stainforth’s eyelids as he paused to light a match from the little silver box he carried. The small yellow flame showed him his surroundings; a pretty little room, with faded, flowery chintz coverings on the old-fashioned furniture. There were many framed photographs standing about among bowls of late roses, and on the walls were water-colour sketches. “Her sitting-room!’’ Lance said to himself with a pang that anything of hers, anything that she cared for. should be destroyed. On a quaint Chippendale desk stood a pair of candles in old silver sticks. Lance

lighted one, found the door and opened it. The room opened into another beyond, evidently a dining-room, and there the smoke was thicker and more acrid. A line of wavering light round the door warned him that he would not need the candle on the other side. He set it down, impressed by the strange contrast between the peaceful aspect of this room, and what he feared to find beyond. But he went to meet the expected danger unhesitatingly. The door, which he carefully closed behind him. led into a square, iowceiled hall, with wainscoted avails, one of which was corniced by little wreathing wisps of ilame, close to the ceiling. It was the waft beside which the staircase ascended, and as Lanee ran up. trailing spirals of fire rayed out above his head.

Below, the almopshere had still been comparatively clear, but on the floor above, a curtain of smoke hung thick and dark as a pall. Lance gue-sed now why the sleepers had been so hard to rouse. They were drugged with smoke. Again he called loudly, shouting ‘‘Fire—lire!” but no answer eame. Groping, he found the door, and pounded desperately on the panel. AA ould Consuelo's voice reply? No. it was another’s, a man’s voice. “What is it? Who is there?” the words came dazedly, as if clogged by slumber, and Lanee recognised the tones of Mr A ail. with whom he had spoken on several occasions since coming to Lurlwin C ove. “The house is on fire. I have come to help you. It’s Lancelot Churchill.” • Stainforth cried, turning the handle of the door, which, to his relief, yielded under his grasp. In the room a night light burned faintly, but so veiled was it by smoke that Lance had to grope his way to Clio bed,'seen faintly tnrough a bluish haze. The man had fallen back in his drugged doze, but as Lance bent over him, and shook him by the shoulder, he started, with a groan, followed by a spasm of coughing. “I’m bed-ridden,” he murmured, chokingly—“have been for two days, with rheumatism. I can't move. For Heaven’s sake, if there’s danger, save my little girl. Don’t think of me.” “I’m going to save you both, said Lanee. “Where does she sleep?” “In the room adjoining this, since I have been worse; there’s a door between. I can’t see it for the smoke. 'She’s worn out with nursing me. or she’s be awake long ago. It’s not natural for her to sleep heavily. (>o to her—wake her, 1 beg of yon. I m helpless as a stone.” Half choked with thick smoke, his eves, streaming with tears, and tlmod blinded. Lance got to the door towards which the invalid pointed. "Miss tail, wake —wake!” he called, as he threw it open. Consuelo had been dreaming a terrible dream. She had thought that she was lying in an iron coflin and that she was to be buried alive, because she could not cry out that she was not dead. Into the midst of this dream broke the voice which each day lor fo::r years had sounded in her thoughts, wu.eh on each Sunday for the past two months had spoken to her from the pulpit, and never anything else. Now. she thought in her dream, he had come to save her from being entombed alive. He was calling her name. If only she could answer.

With an effort which seemed to tear the very fibres of her being, she shook hprself free from the spell which had bound her, and sat up in bed with a cry which was like a sob. The spell and the dream both broke together, and she knew that she was not shut up in the iron coffin, hut was in her own bed, in her own room. Yet. something was strange and dreadful, and—the voice was real. She staggered out of bed, dazed, seeing nothing save smoke, which stung her eyes, her throat, her lungs, like Cayenne pepper, and stole away her presence of mind. “Oh, my father-— my father!” she gasped. “Where is he? What is happening? I must go to him—save him!”

“Here, let me wrap you in these Llenkets. Trust me. I am going to save your father too. No harm shall come to him,” said Lord Stainforth’s voice—the voice she knew so well. It was close to her now. though she saw nothing; and in another instant she was half smothered in blankets—blankets over her head and faec. blankets so folded round her Irody that she was swathed in them like a mummy. Strong arms had lifted her up: she was being Carried as if she were a child. Now she was being taken downstairs. Oh. how hot it was! A blast of beat swept over

her for an instant, which she felt intensely even through the blankets. She struggled and began to beg that she might be taken baek to her father, but she bit baek the words remorsefully. He bad told her to trust him, and she would. He would save them both—she knew it, and her part was to be passive now. He was carrying her downstairs. Now they were on the landing; now the stairs again. Onee he stumbled slightly, then righted himself, and at last they had reached the foot of the stairs. They were moving along a level space. It was cool there; the tire had not come so far. Now she was on her feet. The blankets were pulled back from her face, though they still wrapped her like a cloak. A dazed glance showed her the familiar outline of the dining-room, dim with smoke, but faintly lighted by a candle which stood on the table—one of the silver candlesticks which she kept always on the desk in her own sittirj’-room.

She looked up at Lord Stainforth, and cried out in horror: “Oh, you are burned! Your face—vour hands ”

“It doesn’t matter. I didn't even know,” said Stainforth. simply. “Wait here. I am going back to bring your father down.” Consuelo’s heart contracted with sharp pain. He was risking his life twiee over for her and hers. Suddenly, in a single Hash, she knew how dear that life was to her—how unutterably, unthinkably dear. How could she let him go back into the fire? And yet —it was for her father. He must go. She could not bid him stay.

“God bless you—God keep you!” she heard herself sobbing, in a strange voice, which did not seem like hers. While he was gone, she waited thinking only of him and her father, not at all of herself or of the house, and how this dreadful thing had come io pass, in the dead watches of the night. The seconds were ticked out by her heartbeats, and the throbbing of the blood in her ears. She stood with her hands clasped tightly over her breast, her breathing choked, her soul seeming to be absent from her body, following Lord Stainforth up to her father’s room. She tried to pray, and could not; but God must know what was in her heart. Would there never be a sound up there? Were they both burned, or stifled in the smoke? Should she disobey Lord Stainforth’s wishes, and go to find them —to die with them, if need be? The time seemed as long as all the life she had lived, concentrated in those moments of doubt and waiting, but they ended at last. He—the one man in her world, would save her father: the one man who ever had been, .-ver could be in the world to her. she knew, now—-was coming back. His tall figure loomed dark through the lurid smoke, as he came towards her. carrying a heavy burden —■ a burden swathed, mummy like, as she had been.

“I’ve brought him to you —safe.” Lord Stainforth gasped rather than spoke, his voice choked. "Now.” come with me to the room farthest from the fire. You’ll both be safe there for a little while, and then tell me where the servants sleep. They must be saved, too, you know.”

Of course she ought to have known. But she had forgotten everyone, everything, except him and her father, and he alone had remembered. She thought that it was like Lancelot Churchill to remember, whether it had been like the Lord Stainforth of the past or not. She could not speak, but her eyes poured out her gratitude, if he had only seen. Presence of mind was coming baek now, and she told herself that, if the fire had begun in the west wing, under her room and her father's, the east wing might, still lie clear; and thinking this, she led the way. her cloak of blankets trailing, her beautiful brown hair disordered, floating out like a shimmering veil behind her shoulders as she moved. Passing on from room to room, through quaint passage after passage, the nir. more and more free from smoke, was like the breath of life. In a disused sittingroom. half-stripped of furniture, the girl hade Stainforth lay her father down on a hug?, old-fashioned sofa. “Soon I will come back.” he said. “But I must leave vou here now, for a little.”

“Oh. it may be death for you to go back!” Consuelo half whispered, as her father’s face looked up at her. pale and drawn with pain, from among the blankets.

“I think not.” said Stainforth, “and if it were to be so, I must still go back. Can you tell me the way I”

“I will show you.” said the girl. “Father. do not try to move, i will be with you again soon. Then? is another staircase. Perhaps it will be safer. 1 will take vou there.”

Together, they went hack for part of the distance they had come: but opening a door at on? end of a corridor through which they had not passed, a narrow stairway was lit up by the light of fire not far off, ami a hot blast struck them in the face. “This is far better.” said Stainforth. and with a sick thrill, Consuelo guessed, since this was “far better. what the other must have been. “There are only two servants—-both women. They sleep in adjoining rooms, at some distance to the left at the top of the staircase. It’s the second and third doors to which you must go. But if you called loudly down here, and tried—”

“I am going to them. Get back to your father as quickly as you ran,” he answered; and even as he spoke h? was gone, springing up the shallow stairs three >teps at a time.

But this time Consuelo could not obey. She stood at the foot of the stairs, and waited in an agony of suspense, as she had waited before. In a moment, she heard Stainforth’s voice rousing the servants. then a woman’s scream, halfstifled. and then—silence.

‘’Are they coming?” she asked herself. And while her mind strained with the burden of the unanswered question, a wave of flame-streaked smoke gushed across tl>e top of the stairway. Something dark broke through it, and Consuelo cried. “Thank God!” when sb,? saw that it was Stainforth. carrying one of the women, wrapped in bed clothing, and leading the other, whose head was covered. He alone was exposed to the scorching breath of the lire, and the girl wondered how he bore it and lived.

“Xow I am going to run to the village and rouso the firemen.” he said, when he had brought both sobbing, terrified women to the foot of the stairs. “If the fire comes too near you. in that farthest room, can you all three get Mr. Vail out of the house?” “Yes. to the stables. They have not been used for years, but the roof is whole, and we can shelter there for

awhile.” Consuelo answered bravely "But you are burned —severely burned, and after all you have done for us. you must be half-dead with exliau-tion. I ”

“I feel neither pain nor fatigue.’ Stainforth answered. "Don’t think of me. In less than half an hour 1 hope to have the firemen here, and even then the main part of the house may Im* saved. Have courage!”

"1 am not afraid.” the girl answered. How she worshipped him for his splendid bravery, for his generous self-sacri-fiee! He was all that she had thought him onee, long ago—all. and more, far mere.

With the two servants the girl hurried baek to the room, where she had left her beloved invalid, wrapped in blankets, on the sofa. There was no fire there, and no smoke, nothing to tell — save memory of what had passed—that they were in a burning house. All the doors had lieen shut between to cheek the draught and keep the fire baek. There was nothing to do now. save wait, and try to reassure the sick man. “Who can have done this thing?” he asked between the groans that physical suffering wrung from him. "I believe it is the work of incendiaries —some enemies 1 have made since this miserable strike. The house must have been fired from within, or the rain would have quenched the flames before they could have made much headway. I suppose, Andrews,that you never lock the doors?” “Indeed, sir.” faltered, the old cook, “since the troubles with the fisher folks, and the threats I've heard in roundabout ways, each night, when I've thought of it. every door has been fastened and —-” “Ah, when you’ve thought of it! How often was that?” “Well, you see. sir. there never was any .need before, all these years I've served you. so it’s hard forming a new habit. About to-night. I'm not sure; but anyhow, sir. the bolt on the kitehen door isn't firm in the socket. A strong man could break into the house if he was determined.” “It is there, in the kitehen. that the fire must have started. I think." said Consuelo. “It all seemed to come from the back.”

•There va- a biggish tin of methylated spirit, cook. * They might iizve upset it ever something, the * retches!'’ •‘lf it bad not been for—for Mr Churchill, uc should ail tesve 'lamed to death in cur bed*,’’ exclaimed Consuelo. shuddering. *He must hive bem passing by. and seen the tire through caa of the windows. Oh. father, his poor hands are tenibly burned, and I saxr a streak of blood on his forehead nad cheek. I pray God he may not have to pay 100 dearly for what he has done for us «.hi* night.'’ “I repent some harsh thoughts I’ve had of him since he came to Lurlwin.'' a;:id Mr Vail. “I thought him too CGtd, too reserved for a parson. But he is a hero. No gratitude we can ever show will half requite him. He has saved four lives, and it may be ho will yet save us enough of the old home for me to end my days in.’’ “Listen." cried Consuelo. “What is that sound* It is like shouting in the di’-tiiiu-e/’ "Someone coming to the rescue, perhaps." answered her father. “No. f« r it must be very late, long past midnight.’’ said the girl. "How seldom anyviH- goes along this road after ten o’clock. And there’s not been half time for Mr Churchill to have got to the village, called up the tire brigade, and come Kick, even if he had run at full speed all the way.” “That is true.” replied the invalid. •‘Nevertheless, you are right. I hear shouting. Run to the window and call for help.*’ “You f< rget the trees.” said the girl. “No < ne could see me from this wind< w, but 1 will try to make them hear.” Her voice trembled a little. She was very brave, but ®>he knew that help was needed. or w< uld be soon —perhaps before it could come —for already the air in the r«a>m had thickened. The smoke from the burning xx ing was finding it- way in. | < HAPTER XI. THE WAY OF FATE. Stainforth had not run half way to the village when, to his astonishment and intense relief, he met the Lurlwin fire brigade, with their engine and hose, hastening at full speed along the road towards the house of the “Squire.’’ as Mr. Vail was called. “1 ua* on my way to the fire station.” he said, hurriedly, "to tell you that Mr. Vail's house is on fire. But now you —” ’•Someone else called us up: we don’t know who. but wo couldn’t neglect the summon*.’’ answered the captain. “Whtn we saw that light there we knew that there was no question of a practical joke” turned and went back with tlie firemen, for th? brigade was neither large nor very efficient, ami he knew that every helping nand would be needed, if any pan of the N ails’ house were to be saved. Hail deriiv Garth given the warn-

nnp after all. he asked himself, or had ,one of the men repented when it was ■too late to undo his work? k There was nu time for questioning. Itsr. vnly tnuw. oe to >each the fire as soot, as might be. The bums he had received were very painful, and sometimes a curious giddiness seized him, so that for an instant now and then he seemed on the point of losing e< nsciousness. Still, he staggered on. keeping up with the firemen, who had no horses. This was the explanation of the sounds that Consuelo had htard, and of the arrival of the fire brigade, so long before she had dared hope for it. Seme of the men in the band were fishermen. and had a grudge, eith-r personal or for the sake of some relative, against Mr. Vail. They were honest fellows, and despite their prejudice, int tided to do their duty: yet, perhaps, had it not been for Stainforth. they might not have put their whole souls into that duty, as they would in striving to save the property of another man. But his example was contagions. Forgetting his injuries and his fatigue, he worked like a hero, tearing down curtains which had begun to burn, snatching valuable books and pictures from the very teeth of the fire, dashing water upon climbing flanvs. and helping by deeds as well as example in beating the fire back into the west wing of the hou~e. where it had started. For hours the work went on. while a curious crowd, recruited from the village. watched at a distance, held in cheek by two or three deeply interested policemen. Everyone knew that "the parson” was there, and murmurs went round. "It's just like him.” "Hope they'll let no harm touch the vie.tr. We could ill spare him now. Never will we see his like again ” "No friend of th? rich, he ain't: he's our own man. He'd do as much as this for us. and more: we can be sure of that.” At last the fire was out. and only a great mass of belching. Mack smoke rose from the west wing. Six rooms had gone, but the main part of the rambling old hoe.se. so dear to Consuelo Vail, was safe, and the captain of the fire brigade came to the room where the girl sat with her father to bring the news. "There's no danger the fire will spread further now. Squire.” he said. ''You'll Ire put to plenty of trouble and inconvenience. changing your quarters, and there'll be a tidy bit of expense for rebuilding and repairs, but there's only the west wing hurt, except the bit of damage done by water in the dining-room, and in a little sitting-room, which mav be Miss Vail's own.” "We are very fortunate, and have much to thank you all for." answered Mr. Vail. "1 trust that no one has been injured in any way.” "And—and Mr. Churchill?” faltered Consuelo. "Well, as it happens, the parson is the only one of us who is hurt, except for a trifling burn here and there among the men. which none of them need think of a few days from now." replied the captain. "But the poor parson was pretty

uvl| knocked about., it sen?*. before he came to fetch u-. Not that he stopped fc r that. He’s worked more like three men than one. all through, and didn’t give up till about ten nmintes ago, when a lump of plast r as big as his head fell ami caught him on the temple. It knocked him insensible, and he hasn’t come to yet: bo. he’s a real athlete if lie is a pardon. and he’ll come round all right presently. we hope. 1 thought you wouldn’t mind. Miss Vail, his lieing in your own sitting-room, on the sofa there. Our chap* have been throwing water over him to bring him to. ami it won’t help your sofa covering much. I’m afraid, but at a time like this I thought ” “You thought rightly.’’ the girl broke in. ’’Father, if you can spare me 1’1! uo to him. He saved us all. and—and 1 •’ “Go. of course,’’ said Mr. Vail. By the time Consuelo had found her way through the Mnoke-filled corridors and room*. and the general confusion which the firemen's work had wrought. Stainforth had conn* to himself, but he med dazed and scircely able to realise where he was. or what had happened. Hi- handsome face was stained with -moke and blood. and ;.*e dark eve* were dim. If Consuelo had not known before that *he lov d him -he would have known it now. Her heart yearned to him in a pa—ion of gratitude and repressed tenderness. He was sitting on t’:e sofa, when she came into the -moky twilight of the little boudoir, which was Jighted by a candle or two which the firemen had found. His elbows were on his knees, his face on his hand*, as if he were striving to recover him-clf. and scarcely succeeding. He raised his head, as Consuelo uttered ar. exclamation of distress at sight of his condition. “Miss Vail’. I—forgive me. I’m afraid I’m rather stupid. I can’t rise yet. but ’’ he began. the word* coming slowly. Then suddenly breaking oil. “Forgive- you?” the girl echoed. “Why. I’ve come to thank you —thank you with all my Heart and soul for everything. You are very ill. You must let us help you to a room where you can rest for the night, ami soon the doctor will l»e here, from the village. Already he has been sent for ’’ “No. no. I don’t need a doctor.” said Stainforth heavily. “I—l’m quite right,

or will be. in a few minutes, as soon aS I can remember—things a little better. I've got rather confused, but it’s nothing—nothing at all. You are safe—and your father?” “Quite safe, thanks to you.” "Then I'll go home non.”’ lie lifted himself up. resting one burned and blistered hand on an arm of the sofa, but sank down, his eyes half closed. Consuelo sprang to him. or. falling into unconsciousness again, he would have slipper! helplessly to the floor. She half sat, half knelt, beside him, supporting the tall, strong man with her frail young anus. His head drooperl forward on her shoulder, and a thrill of such strange happiness as she had never known, tan through the girl's nerves. It was «£» keen, that it was almost pain. (IIAPTER NIL THE MAX AGAINST HIMSELF. For a week Stainforth was very ill. A bedroom had been hastily prepared for him in the east wing of the "Squire's'* house, and Consuelo divided her time between him and her father, who had been made worse by the fatigue and exposure on that eventful night of the fire. A professional nurse was sent for from Braymouth. the nearest large town, but even when Stainforth'* mind wandered slightly, during the first few davs of his illness, the comfort given him by the girl's presence was so evident that Sister Wells was glad to encourage Miss Vail's ministrations. Meanwhile the mystery sttrroumling the origin of the fire rrmainetl a mystery still. It was known that it had started on the ground floor of the west wing, in a store-room separated from the kitchen by a short passage: but- that room had been destroyed with all its contents, and it was impossible to l>e certain that the fire was the work of incendiaries. It had been learned that Dick West was the man who gave the alarm at the fire station, hurrying oft so quickly that his identity was unknown at the time. But he stated that he had been on his way home from an evening visit to a friend who lived on a farm at some distance. that he had seen the fire, and given the alarni. but that, as he was "no friend of the Squire’s,” he had

slipped away because he did not wish his name to appear in the matter. “The parson" held his peace; so did Jenny Garth; and there was no proof against anyone known to be among Mr. Vail’s enemies. There were those who believed that Mr. Churchill could have spoken had he wished; for if he had had no warning, how came he to discover the tire so opportunely? But he was often out late at night, and his passing the house at the right moment might have been a coincidence. At all events, he would become but the more popular in the neighbourhood fur “knowing how to hold his tongue." Stainforth suffered intensely from his burns, for some time, and could neither sleep nor eat for the fever in his veins. Often, at first, he knew only dimly what was |>assing round him. and seeing Consuelo's face constantly near him. he believed it to be a dream. By and bye, however, he realised that he was lying ill at her house, and remembered everything that had led to his presence th* re. lie tried to be sorry and to wish that he were at home, lonely though that home might be. but he could not be sorry Physical weakness made it difficult for hun to do battle with himself, as he had long grown accustomed to doing in his strength, and he resigned himself to being quietly happy because he coukl not help it—happier than he had been since the days when he was Stainforth. But that was before he had begun to think. Some times when he couhl not rest, but would lie toss.ng with fever, and the throbbing pain of his burns. Coneuedo would lay her little hand, very shyly al first, then with less self consciousness on his hot forehead, smoothing back the short, dark huir. He could have died happily thus, he told himself, with her hand on his head. “If only 1 had known her six months sooner than I did," he would -*ay over and over. ‘‘She was a child then, but I -should have loved her. and that miserable fl i nation of mine would never have been begun. Lady Wen-wick would be an innocent won.’an to-day; poor old dim woukl probably have been alive still, contentej. if not happy, an 1 I—l1 —1 should have been free to try and make a good woman care for me.” . When the bitterness of hi- regrets would become too deep to bear, he woukl try to remind himself that perhaps his sufferng in the past had not been all in vain. Through the'expiation of his own sin. he might ’rive been able to help others, whose lives he would not have touched in happiness and good fortune. Bat with Consuelo near him. ministering to bun. his y. a.h was hot in his veins, and he could on.lt remember that he was a man who loved a woman, and was unfit io ask that she should share his life. “1 ought nut to wish her to share such a life us 'nine." he would remind himself sternly, ‘ even if I had a right to ask her, which I haven’t, and never shall. My life must always be one of hardship, for atonement's sake. Whenever I find that I am becoming too happy and comfortable in one place. I must go to another—l must ‘move on' always, doing what good I can. and bearing my cross. I should be a brute even to want io lay that cross on a girl's shoulders.” So when he had begun to think, he would argue, -and the first sweet contentment of his convalescence was gone, as if searched by the flames which had burned his flesh. Mr Vail had recovered from his acute attack of rheumatism before Stainforth •was able to talk with the young ‘assistant- nurse,’ as Sister Wells called Consuelo; and freed from her attendance upon her father, the girl had more time to give to their guest. When ho was strong enough to listen, she told him how parish affairs -were going. an I .spoke <sf the progress of repairs on the burned wing. The curate. Mr Danvers, was doing very well; he had preached a good sermon on everybody seemed satisfied with his work, but was anxious to have Mr Churchill l»ack when he was quite, quite strong enough—not before. When Stainforth had been ill for a week, he was allowed one afternoon to sit up in bed for the first time, propped up among some pillows. His mini hid been as clear as ever now. for two or three days, and he knew that he was allowing the image of Consuelo Vail to dwell too constantly there. He knew that she coloured all his thoughts; thaz he Ind but tn shut his eyes for her face to appear, like a fair apparition in the dark; that when she went out of the room, he wat lied the door continually for her return: that when she was with

him, he was miserable lest she should “Miss A’ail said she would come in and sit with you for a bit, if 1 wanted to go out for a little exercise about this time." announced Sister Wells. “You won’t mind if 1 do go. will you?’ “Of course not." ?aid Stainforth. “Bat plea-e don’t trouble Miss A’ail. 1 am perfectly comfortable, and shan't want anything till you come back. There’s no reason why 1 shouldn’t be lef: alone. I must get used to it. you 'know, for in a day or two 1 shall be well enough to crawl home, and —” “Can’t you pretend to yourself that this is home?" asked Consuelo, smiling her lovely, shy smile, as she came in just in time to catch the last words. “No.* for 1 aim nappy here,” Stainforth had sai<i. before he could stop the words, and then regretted them; for though they were true. Le had no right to tell such truth to Consuelo A’ail. “I am also in danger of growing lazy," he went on. trying to make hi> vokv sound indifferent. and succeeding in making it sound very cold. -“You are too good to me. 1 must go away as scon as I can.” By this time Sister AA’ells had slipped out for her walk. Consuelo and Stainforth were al me together for the first time since the day of their meeting in the fog. nearly five years ago. Each thought of that day. and each supposed that the other would not; for th? man was not at all sure that Consuelo recognised him as Lord Stainforth. and remembered the hour or two that they had spent in each other's society so long ago; while th? girl fancied that the little episode would have been without importance in his mind. “If you are so anxious to go and leave us,” Consuelo said. rather sadly. “we shall think that we let you miss things you would have at home, and we sTiou'd lx? so sorry to think that." Something in the sweet young voice quickened the l>eating of the man’s heart. Instinct told him temptingly, at this moment, that he had a strong influence upon tlx* girl, that it was in his power to make her care for him as she never had eared, never would care for anyone else in th? world. He did not deliberately say this thing to himself, and if the thought had taken form in his mind, ho would have put it away as monstrous <-<merit. protesting that he must be mad to dream it for a moment. But ]•»? felt the truth with his heart, not with his brain, and he felt also that, if he were to act consistently with principle. he would Jo what he could to displease Ppi*, now at the very threshold of their i newed acquaintance. It was this instinct which had put ice into his voice, to contradict th;warmth of his impulsive w<»rd>. “She had better dislike me. and then iherc will l»e no danger for either of us." something had whispered insistently, and kept him l>ound in siknv.-. If he did not answer her gentle little hint, she would think him a disagreeable fellow, ungrateful. and cold-hearted; and it wallet t’ r so. But it hurt him horribly to hurt her. and he had to press his lips tightly together to keep back the words which she would have been triad to hear. Consuelo xaw him grow pale, and so ihe effect of his intended unkiminess was lost upon her. for she fancied that he was suffering, and unable to speak. “I mustn't make you talk." she said, and sighed in sympathy with Lis pain. But the sigh was a knife-thrust at Stain forth’s heart, for he believed that his sulky silence had caused it. To >ave his life ly? could not have helped turning to look wistfully at the girl, and the hungry dark eyes met the blue grey ones, which spoke the love she would have died sooiu?r than speak with her lips. He saw the look, and his pale, worn faco flushed darkly to the forehead. Again Consuelo misunderstood. “Are you suffering?" she exclaimed. ‘‘Can I do anything for you?" ‘‘You can do everything.” was the answer in his heart, but aloud he said, almost chillingly*. “No, thank you. there is notiiing that you can do. I want nothing." Now. at last, the girl Iwgan to understand that his coldness was not caused by pain, and she wondered, miserably, how she couhl have offended him. “Perhaps." -%he thought sadly, “he dislikes me because be associates me with the past th it he has evidently l»een trying to put away far from him. Perhaps it worries him to have me in the room. It never occurred to me before, Jhat it might l»e so. I'm afraid I am very stupid.” The girl fell suddenly as

if she had a great lump of ice in her breast, which must always be there ail the test of her life. “1 ought to have understood." she said to herself, “when 1 heard him tell Sister AA’ells not to call me. that it was because he really would lather be alone than have me with him.” She had been sitting by the bed side, but now she rose, her cheeks brightly pink, and her eyes sparkling with tears which -he would not let Pall. “Perhaps you could sleep if 1 went out." she suggested. trying to sjieak lightly. “\\ id you try if I go?" “Acs, 1 will try," he replied. “And you will touch tne bell on the little table if you need anything." “1 am sure 1 shall not need anvthing," he s-aid. There was nothing for Consuelo to Jo but to go. As soon as she was outside the door the tears she had held back streamed from her eyes. .“Yes it is certain that he dislikes me.” she thought. “But how different lie is now that he is getting belter. A\ hen he was very ill he seemed to cling to me. and want me with him. Sister AV ells often asked me to stay. Rut naw —in what a tone be said: ‘There is nothing that you can do.’” AVith the shutting of the door the grimne-— of his fate seemed to close in round Stainforth irrevocably. He would Live given the world to call Consuelo back, and yet he couhl not have done so for all that world. He loved her: she meant youth, and life, and the sweetness of th? one AV’oman to him. but she was not to be his, and because of the revealing look in her dear eyes, he must make himself hateful in them. He must begin to do i r now. and go on doing it until he could leave her. never to see her any more, save front a distance. It would be the kindest way, therefore the only way to take; for if she learned to care she would Im? miserable. Now. to find him hateful, sullen, ungracious, and ungrateful. would hurt her girlish vanity, perhaps, hut scarcely more. Yet. how he wanted her! How his sou! cried out for her to come back. He wished that he were very ill again, and not responsible for his own words and -actions; he had been happy when he Thought her face a dream, and bad tried io go on dreaming. But dreams were not for hiai. Life was very reaJ. an I it ha 1 to be lived. By and bye Sister AVclls cam? back, and wa> surprised to find Miss A’ail sitting by a window at t'ae end of the corridor, not far from the closed door of the invalid's room. She spoke brightly. saying that she had come out to let Mr Churchill sleep, remaining cL -»e by in case of need; but her ey?« 1 «oked as if she had been crying. Mr Churchill seemed feverish, and had certainly not slept. Sister AA’ells’ curiosity was roused, and she determined to find out if anything had happened: fur she had Imvii weaving a very pretty little romance round the v. *ar and Consuelo A’ail. and now she pictured a lovers' quarrel. “Poor little Miss A’ail h?s been sitting outside in the corridor crying." she announced, as s’ae mixed waler with Stainforth's cooling draught, and peeped ’it him from under her eyelashes. “I wonder what can Im* the mailer?" Stainforth did nut answer, but she had the satisfaction of seeing the blood rush to his face, leaving him paler than before, as it ebbed slowly away. A< he gave her no opening, the nurse was obliged reluctantly to drop the -abjcct; but soon after her patient began to speak again about going home. ‘ I •am so much better and stronger now. that I shall be able to get away tomorrow’. 1 should think." not.” replied Sister AA’ells. “Why. 1 have been engaged by Mr Vail to stop till next week, and take care of you, when you ar? putting on the airs of a well man. sir? How could you Jo your own bandages. 1 should like to know. You couldn't; and until your

burns are well, you ure at nn meroy and Miss Vail’s.” Again Stainforth was silent, but he was not convinced. He could not continue to >ee Consuelo as he was sct'inv her now. and l*e certain that he a iulc not fail in his newly adopted policy. Ik would almost surely yield to an impulse stronger than any policy, and a*k lh» girl s forgiveness foi hi< seeming in gratitude, and explain it all too clearly for hi- own peace of mind perhaps fo: her-. And if he were to l»e in the sanu hou-e without seeing her. knowing tha* he had driven her away by his tuileuess that he had hurt her in heart an I girl isli pride, he would suffer too intcnselv No. the situation was now too severelv strained, after the scene which had i»ist pas-e<l. He determined that next day he would test his strength by getting up. when the nur-e had left him . ’one. and try to dress himself. If he could succeed in doing that, no one could say that hr was not able to go home to the vicarage, where his housekeeper would look after him well enough. According to this resolution, he made the effort next morning, and though he was surprised at his own weakness, be succeeded in dressing him-elf without fainting. Si-ter \A ells had gone out. making in errand to the chemist's, in the vj|’;»ge. an excuse for het daily exercise, and this time Miss Vail had not been asked to sit with him in the nurse's absence. Thus Stainforth had more than half .in hour to spend in carrying out his plan; and weak as he was. he had needed every one of those thirty minutes. At last, when he was dressed, and the bandage across his forehead folded as narrowly as he dared, he decided to try going downstairs. Consuelo often wrote letters for her father at this time of day. he ha<l heard her saying to the nurs«\ and probably he should find the two together. and surprise them. A’ery slowly, he went down the shallow* steps of the winding stairway, that led to a part of the house which ho did not yet know. It was humiliating to find that he had to keep on? bandaged band on the balusters, to steady himself. but. after all. he thought that h? was doing very well. He would no doubt be able to pcrsua<le Mr. A’ail that be was quite able to take up ordinary life again, where he had laid it down, eight days ago. Far away in the west wing, a sound of pounding came to hi- ears; the car penters at work: but there was no «dher sound in the house, and he paused nt the foot of the stairs, uncertain which way to go. He felt vuriuu-ly giddy, too <nd was glad that there was n > near for a moment, until he should have lime to recover himself. Be was in a small, old-fashioned square hall, with waiscolted walls, and . big latticed window at one ends so drop <d with creepers that the place was firlec with a soft emerald ligld. as if the sunshine filtered thrMigh a dr.insparrtH green curtain. Opposite, was a do<>r that led out into the-garden,~.;j,ud thi-. stood half open. The sweet, yet mekin choly fragrance of aromatic autumn flowers hung in the air. Set against the wainscotting, near th< foot of the stairs, was a big. chintz covered sofa, and near by was a table on which asters and marigolds lay scattered. ready to Im» arranged in some bowls and vases in the centre of tin brilliant heap. Thi- was the picture stainforth saw as he stood hesitating. “She must Im* out there in the garden." hr tboughU “In a moment she will be coming ir with more flowers. What a fool I ait to be so weak. She mu-t not see me like, this. It I sit down for a moment, per haps. I shall be myself again. 1 But the thought was never finished. His head swam, and he staggered to the big M»fa. falling back upon it. dead!; white, just as Consuelo came in, wilt her hands full <»f late roses.

(To be Continued.)