The Man Who Paid

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIV, Issue 26, 1 July 1905, Page 8

The Man Who Paid

By

Mrs. C. N. Williamson

Author of “ The Bam Stormers," Etc.

CHAPTER XV. FROM OUR LADY OF TEARS. The sight of the house in Park Lane, once so familiar, sent a coldness through Stainforth’s ve.n>. Involuntarily he closed his eyes for a second, as he mounted tin* steps to tltg door, and was conscious of a slight sensation of sickness as the remembrance of his last visit to this place shot like the sharp stab of a needle through his brain. He had not been to the house, nor seen it, since the day after Lord \\ enwick s death, when duty had dragged him to the side of the confessed murderess. Now he was here to ask the new Lord Wenwiek whether she was living or dead. It did not seem to Stainforth that anything of good could come to him from this house, and his lips were dry as he inquired of the footman who opened the door whether Lord \\ enwick were at home. It was on his tongue to give the name of Churchill, but he remembered that it would convey no meaning to Lord Wenwick. who knew nothing of what his life had been during the past live years. Therefore the footman took to his master the old name, almost forgotten in the world of London now : and live minutes later Stainforth was in the study which had once been poor Jim’s special "den.” These two men had never been more than casual acquaintances, despite the intimacy which had existed between the dead Lord Wi nwick and Stainforth. The present holder of the title had never cared for the people or the things that had interested his elder brother. He dis liked politics, he* disliked society, disapproved of extravagances in every form, and had but three pleasures in life: the saving of money, salmon fishing, and the study of botany. His wife, who was plain, had brought him a fortune, was of a quaker family, and took life gravely: therefore neither one nor the other had ever had anything in common with the set wherein Lord Stainforth had once been a prominent figure. Five years had made more change in Stainforth than in the new Earl of Wen wick, and in his clerical garb the younger man might have passed in the street unrecognised by the elder.* Lord Wenwick looked at his visitor with astonished curiosity, and more interest than he had ever felt in him before. "How do you do. Stainforth?” was all he said, however, in the stiff, quiet way which was one of his characteristics. "This is something of a surprise, not only seeing you. but seeing you in clericals. I had no idea that you had entered the Church: indeed, you seem to have hidden yourself effectively for years. Everybody had the idea you had gone round the world, or something of that sort. It must be five years since we met: about the time of poor James' death. 1 fancy.” "Yes, it was about that time,’’ Stainforth answered mechanically. "Long ago my people expected me to go into the Church. I didn’t wish it then, but I did afterwards. I went out to India soon after Jim died: now. for some months I’ve been vicar of a country parish in England. There 1 use my family name of Churchill, for. as a parson. 1 don't care to use my title, or even have my dropping it become a matter for gossip. This is my first visit to London for a long time, ami I have come to you to ask if you can give me any news of your sister-in-law. Lady Wenwick.”* The elder man did not reply for a moment. He remembered that there had been talk of a flirtation between Vera and Lord Stainforth. and that his wife had been used to speaking of it with bitter disapproval. It was her theory that Vera had shut herself up

in a French convent because Stainforth had not asked her to marry him when she was free. "You know, 1 suppose, that she entered a convent in France, and took the vow’s?” Lord Wenwick said, cautiou ly, after his pause for reflection. "1 heard that. 1 have heard nothing since. Jim and 1 were very old friends. 1 saw- a great deal of them both. Now. 1 don’t know whether Lady Wenwick is living or dead. Can you tell me?” "She is dead.” the other answered, s lowly. The blood sang in Stainforth’s ears. His heart beat so suffocatingly that for a few seconds he feared that he was going to faint. In travelling hurriedly to London after a sleepless night, he had forgotten that his illness had taken away something of his old strength- which he had not yet had time to regain, but he remembered now. However, he conquered the weakness, and Lord Wenwick saw nothing of it except a sudden Hush followed by pallor. “Dead!” Stainforth repeated. "Once a year I considered it my duty to w rite to my sister-in-law,” W enw ick continued formally. “She an-wered with a line or two; but this year it was the Mother Superior—as I believe the directress is. called —who wrote, to announce the death of Sister \ eronica. That was the convent name of my sis-ter-in-law, after taking the veil. No details were given. 1 wrote to make certain inquiries, but so far they have remained unanswered.” "Then you don't know when or how she died?” answered Stainforth. "No. Of course, if she had not become a nun. I should have insisted on further information; but a woman who has taken the veil has removed herself from the world, separated herself voluntarily from her family. Death is scarcely a more impenetrable barrier than she has delibera ely put between herself and her past. Ido not see that any particular object is to be served, in the circumstances, by my forcing the convent silence to be broken. Vera is certainly dead, and buried according to the rites of her adopted church in the cemetery of the convent as she would have wished. There let Stainforth bowed his head. There was nothing to say. He had no right to advise Lord Wenwick on a question of conduct. “I thank you for telling me what you know,” he said. rhe other’s eyes asked why thi> sudden fervour of curiosity as to Lady Wen wick’s fate; but his lips put no such question. If they had. it would have been difficult for Stainforth to answer. The two men talked for a few moments of commonplace things, and then Stainforth bade Lord Wenwick farewell. As the door of the house closed behind him. he felt that he was a diffeient man from the one who had gone in half an hour ago. He was free—free to be happy, and to make Consuelo happy. 11 was dreadful to think that this happiness (all the more ecstatic because it had been so nearly lost) was built upon the death of a woman once nowerful in influencing his life. But her influence had been evil: and he would not have been a man of flesh and blood if he could have checked the wave of joy which swept over his spirit at this release from moral bondage. Stainforth had counted upon -a delay in finding Lord Wenwick. and had not expected to reach home again till late: but he caught an earlier train than he had dared hope to take, and went straight to Consuelo Vail.

The girl came to him with a question in her eyes which her trembling lips could not speak. "Aly darling—my own!” whispered Stainforth. holding out his arms, and with a broken cry, Consuelo ran to him. She knew well what words and gesture meant. He would not call her his, or take her in his arms, if he were still bound by a vow to another woman. Besides, his face would have told her that they were not to part, even had he been silent and motionless. "Oh. may 1 be happy? May 1 be happy?” she faltered. ■'The past is dead, my precious one,” lie answered. "The future is ours. Sly punishment is ended, and God did not mean our love to end in sorrow, after all.” "You have paid—oh, how you have paid.” the girl whispered, clinging to him. "But I will try to make you forget how you have suffered.” ”1 don’t want to forget, my darling.” he said. "It is best to remember, but never with bitterness again.” "She—is dead?” Consuelo hesitated, for the question seemed so hard, so crude. "Yes: months ago. Perhaps more. Lord Wenwick knew very little, except that—the news of her death had come

to him from the Mother Superior of the Convent of Our Lady of Tears.” "Our Lady of Tears,” echoed the girl; and she shivered in her lover’s arms, at the thought of the name’s appropriateness. "Our happiness eomes to us through tears,” she said to herself; but she did not speak the words aloud. And to escape from the chilling fancy, she cried: “A hundred times to-day I have told myself one thing Do you care to know what it was?” "Of course i care,” answered Stainforth. “Then, it was this: ‘lf only God gives him back to me, I can’t be away from him for long. Oh, Lance, I’m ready to take back what 1 said before about keeping our engagement to ourselves, and—and about waiting. 1 see now that it was stupid, if you want me as much as you thought you did. Every hour that we spend apart will be full of dreadful presentiments and fears, 1 think, after what I’ve suffered to-day.” "It is what 1 have been thinking of. every instant, too. since—l heard that 1 was free,” said Stainforth. "You were so sure it would make you happier to wait, that I would have hardly dared to beg that you’d change your mind, lest I should be selfish, but—Consuelo, it you could!” “I have already,” answered the girl.

"Do you mean that you’ll marry me ■eon?”

She nodded, smiling up at him, a lovely smile, that would have broken Au thouy Wyndham’s heart to see. “How soon?’’ ‘■Why, 1 couldn't be ready in less than a fortnight. I’d thought of six weeks, you know. But now I don’t car.? if everybody knows, to-morrow, that we’re engaged, and after that —” •"But a fortnight! 1 could get a special license, and we might be married at once —” "Oh, no. Dad wouldn’t like that. It wouldn’t l>e fair to him. Why tlx? fortnight will pass as if it were a few hours. I don’t see how I shall he ready, but 1 don’t much care. I care only for you, and to be with you.” So it was settled. The next day everyone heard the news, though precisely how it spread so wide and so fast, nolaxly could have told. Miss Vail was to marry the vicar! Well, atter his saving her life and her father’s, nearly losing his own. and being nursed back to health by her, the engagement need surprise no one, although, somehow, Jlr. Churchill had not seemed like a marrying man. The affair was a great romance. however, and all the country was d lighted—-with one exception; Sir Anthony Wyndham. But if a knife turned in his heart each time ho was asked what he thought of the great news, none save himself knew of the pain. Stainforth no longer wished to lead the life of an anchorite. God had given him Consuelo, lie thought, as a sign that the payment for the past was made,/the long punishment over. For Consuelo the vicarage—her hone in the future, as well as his—must be made beautiful. He, with the girl and a young married friend of hers, spent happy days in London. choosing new furniture and decorations. Two servants w. re engaged to work midei the old housekeeper. who had served him well; and Consuelo had h< r wedding dress, and other gowns to think ot. Ihe wedding was to be very quiet .;;:d simple, but there were many preparations to-be nti’de. notwithstanding. It was as she had said: the days flew like hours; she did not know what became of them, hut she was far from regretting.each one as it passed. It was good t<> know that she was just so much nearer to the new life—the life in which she and the man she loved were to be always together, without fear that anything this side the grave could nart them. And her father was happy in her happiness. Ihe old house was presently to lie let. which could easily be managed, for it was quaint. and pretty, with a view of the sea. and there had seldom been a year without rn offer, had Mr. A ail chosen to accept. A beautiful room was being got ready for him at the vicarage, and he had grown so fond of the mi’ll who had saved his life, that be had few regrets for the loss of Antinny Wyndham. By and by the last day came—the flay that was Consuelo’s marriage eve. She was to have four bridesmaids, end one of them, a girl who lived at some distance, was stopping in the house; the others had been there half the afternoon looking ::t the presents, of which there was an astonishing number. Towards evening there was some excitement because the wedding gown, promised by a London dressmaker for the day before, had not yet arrived: 'out a telegram announced i coming, and presently it appeared, in a great box carried by a young girt, and accompanied by the dressmaker her-elf. who was ready to make any small alterations that might b? needed. I he bride of to-morrow was dressed as she would be for her wedding, all save the veil (which was to be of rare old liiei left by her mother), when Stainforth called, to see Consuelo Vail for the last time. "He shall see me as I am now.” said the girl, treeing herself from the dressmaker's bands. “• Hi no, that brings bad hick?” exclaimed the bridesmaid, who had been watching the trying on process with absorbed interest. "The bridegroom must never see the bride in her wedding gown till he meets her at the altar, or she will never met! him there at all.” Consuelo laughed. She was too confident of her happiness now to be frightened by any nursery tale of superstition. “I’ll risk it!” she said, and ran away. Stainforth was waiting for her in her •wn boudoir.

“You look like an angel!” he exclaimed, as she came iu.

“I’m going to be the angel of your hearth,” she answered, gaily; but he hardly seemed to hear, so dazzled was he by the white beauty of his bride. “Can it be true that you’re mine?” he asked himself aloud. “You are such a wonderful vision that I half believe I’m dreaming you.” “Touch me and see if 1 vanish,” Cou'suelo laughed. “1 daren't touch you. for I’m wet with rain,” he answered. "There’s a big storm coming up —the first we’ve hail for an age. I hope it will clear before tomorrow.”

"Do you know there’s been no storm since the night of our fire, when you saved us all, weeks and weeks ago,’’ said Consuelo.

"1 remember. I was thinking of it as I came. Hut now 1 can’t think of anything but you,” exclaimed Stainforth. “You are like moonlight on snow—yet no', you’re not so cold. You are like sunrise over a field of lilies—the sunrise of niv future.

“I’lll so glad you like me in this dress - the most important dress I’ve ever had. or will have,” said Consuelo. “But I mustn’t stop with you long, dearest — they’re waiting Jor me upstairs. Will you come and have a peep at the presents? They’re all beautifully arranged now. in the library, and five new rues have come to-day. Isn’t everybody good to us?” "Everybody ought to be good to you. No, I don’t want to see the presents, thanks. 1 only want to look at you, and talk to you.” They forgot then that anyone was waiting upstairs, and it was only a shrieking blast of wind against the window pane that roused them to the existence of a world outside their love. “fill, there is going to be a terrible storm!’’ cried Consuelo. "Now 1 wonder, if 1 were superstitious, would 1 be afraid it was another bad omen? You mustn’t go out in it. You must say here with us till the worst is past.” “If I’ve learned to be anything of a weather prophet in my experience of Lurlwin and the sea,” said Stainforth, “this storm hasn’t come to its worst _yet. and mayn’t for hours. I must go, because I’ve someone to visit who is very ill, and I have promised to visit him to-night. I should never cease to reproach myself if I were too late.” “You mean Jenny Garth’s grandfather?” asked Consuelo. “Is he worse to-day ?” "Yes,” said Stainforth. “There was to be a second consultai ion of doctors for him this evening. By the time I plan to arrive at the coitage it should b? just over. But he will die to-night, I think.” "1 know you are paying bo h the doctors yourself,” exclaimed Consuelo. “Jenny told me so. She adores you. I’cor old man, I can’t bear to think he may be dying on my wedding eve.” "He doesn’t sillier any more.” said .Stainforth. “But I must go to him now, my white angel.” “It’s a long way for you to walk in this rain and wind, which would blow any normal umbrella wrong side out —- even if you ever carried one. And the cottage is so near the sea, that the spray must be blowing up to the windows. How I wish I could walk with you.” “I pray that you may be always by my side from to-morrow.” “Yes, even in storms—oh, but more than ever in storms.” “If 1 can help it. they shan’t blow os you.” smiled Stainforth. Then he took both her hands in his and kissed them. "Good-bye,” he said. “Not good-bye; an revcir,” the girl corrected him. And he went a wav with those last words of hers in his ears. It was it walk of perhaps a mile to the cottage wh re old And’.vw Garth h::d lived for more than half a eentury. Dm •, he had been a fisherman; for se. nil years he had done no more than m?n I the nets of oth is. Now he lay near to death, with the spray of the sea by which he had made his livelihood dashing against his windows. The united opinion of the two doctors was not favourable. The old man was dying, and knew it; but he was glad to see Mr. Churchill. There was no one with him except the wife, of a neighbour who had come in out of kindness, for Andrew Garth and his son bad quarrelled years ago, and never became reconciled. Jenny was not allowed to visit her grandfather- who had been rude to her once; and so the vicar was alone with the dying man, save for the deaf old woman.

This living the cise, Stainforth said to himself that he must ’see it through.” lie could not go home until the end should come, if he had to watch by the bdside all night.

For a time Andrew was conscious, and talked with the vicar; hut gradually he relapsed into a kind of coma, breathing heavily, his eyes half closed, and grey shadows stealing over the lined old face. The house was v< ry still, save for those painfully drawn breatlts. Stainforth could hear the insistent ticking of a cloca in the adjoining kitchen, the door of which stood open. Sometimes the old woman, who sat there, stirred in her chair or sighed, or dropped asleep as the evening merged into night, and started awake again with a gasp or cough. *’A strange wedding eve! * Stainforth thought; and as the words still lingered in his mind, a sudden loud sound shattered the silenc?. It was the firing of a rocket on some vessel in distress not far across the water. The young man glanced at. the grey face on the pillow. . It did not change. The old man heard nothing. Already he had gone a long way on his journey. Stainforth sprang up. and went to the uncurtained window. It was drenched with rain and salt spray, but as he stared out into the darkness, a red Hash lightened the night for an instant, and then came the sound of another rocket. Stainforth w.nt quickly to the kitchen, and roused the old woman from a dose. Speaking loudly and distinctly, close to her ear. he told her that he must go out : there was a vessel in distress, and help must be given somehow. Many liv.s might be in danger perhaps, and’it was even more important to save them than to watch beside a dying man. She must take his place, and he would come back when he could. “that 11 be the third ship has come to grief on Lurlwin Rocks in my day." the old woman croned, with a kind of savage pleasure in the excitement of danger to others that women of her class som, times show. ’ Yes. sir: I*ll watch beside Andrew. He won’t be the first I've seen go out—no, nor the last I'll see. if I’m spared.” Stainforth left the house marked by the Angel of Death, and went into the wild night. Already men from the cot-

tages near the sea, and from the village higher up, were hurrying down to the beach, drawn by the appeal of the rockets. There was no life-saving station at Lurlwin, but there were seaworthy boats, and brave men to man them, when there was hope of effecting a rescue. But to-night, the men were saving that no boat of theirs could live in snch a sea. ‘•She’s a steam yacht, sir- a t’dy little craft,” one of the men said. “She’s fast on the rocks and breaking up. Nothing under heaven can save her, or those left on board.” His eyes accustomed to the darkness now. Stainforth could see the glimmer of something white through the welter of the storm, across a space of black water. "We ran leave her there, without trying to help.” he said. “It’s too horrible. I’ll go if others will volunteer.” “What. you. sir—and you to be married to-morrow?" A vision of Consuelo in her wedding gown Hashed across Stainfort h’s mind, like a gleam of light in the darkness. "Yes.” he said firmly ‘‘though I’m to be married to-morrow, if God wills. Who’ll come with me?’’ Six men. fired by such an example, volunteered, and one gave his boat, by which he made his living as a fisherman. Twice it was launched, and tossed back as if it were a gift which the waves scorned: but it braved them, and conquered. On shore, to those* waiting — men. women and children —it seemed that the storm had reached its height and had begun to abate. There was hope that the adventurers might after all accomplish some good, and return. It was Jenny Garth who ran. with-the wind panting at her back like a fierce dog. to the Squire’s house, to tell the bride where her "hr’degroom had gone. “Oh. miss, I doubt you’ll never see him again, and my Dick’s with him,” she sobbed. “1 thought you ought to know.’’

Consuelo, who had heard nothing of the wreck, felt suddenly frozen by the dreadful news. Her friend, who would be—or was to have been—her bridesmaid of to-morrow had gone to bed but Consuelo had nut wished to sleep

Now, she was thankful that she was still dressed. Without a word to alarm her father, she wrapped herself in a great cloak, and went out. •‘The wind is not so fierce now,” she Baid, almost hopefully. “No, it has dropped! hut the waves will be just as* high. I’m thinking.” moaned Jenny. “When we get to the shore, down there by grandfather’s cottage, we’ll know the worst, perhaps—” “Or the best.” broke in Consuelo, her Words almost a prayer. As they came within sight and hearing of the crowd on the beach, a great shout went up—a shout of joy, and they knew it would not be “the worst” which they would have to find. A dozen strong fellows had rushed out into the surf, and pulled in the returning boat. “Parson and all safe, and brought back four men and a woman!” the cry went up. “Thank Cod!” whispered Consuelo, her hands pressed over her heart. Together she and Jenny ran down a slippery, sloping path to the shore. The boat was drawn up high and dry now. and there was Stainforth dripping sea water from head to foot, with the limp foini of a woman in his arms. ( II APTER XVI. .WHEN THE GRAVE GIVES UP ITS DEAD. “You are safe! You have come back to me,” said Consuelo. The voice and the sight of her pale face, illumined fitfully by the flickering light of Jenny Garth’s lantern, surprised Stainforth. who had not dreamed of being welcomed back to life by her. "You here, dearest.” he answered. “This isn’t right. You should he at home sleeping—” “Oh. don t say that, ‘when you are here. Jenny told me, and I came; how thankful 1 am.” “And 1, for everything. But if we could have rescued the others. There were a dozen on board, it seems. We have brought back with us only live—the men are all of the crew; the others had been washed away. The yacht's going to pieces fast now. but we know there’s no one left on board.” “This woman—is she living?” asked Consuelo. 1 hope so—l think so. She was, when we took her from the yacht. None of the men were hurt, except one. whose arm is broken. They will be all right; but she—well, 1 must take her to Andrew Garth’s cottage, for it’s the onlv place of shelter near by. The poor old man is dying, but there’s a room when* she can lie. and Mrs. Brodrigg. whom 1 left watching with Andrew, ran help me bring her round again. I think she has only fainted, ami that we won’t netd i doctor." but if we do—” “Lot me come with you, ami if there’s anything very wrong, Jenny ami 1 will run to fetch the doctor,” pleaded Consuelo. “It’s not necessary, darling.” said Stainforth. “Jenny, win) brought vou here, had better take you home. Your father will be ill with anxiety.” “Father doesn’t know that 1 canh* out,” broke in Consuelo. “Jennv arrived after he had gone to bed. but the servants w<re up. and Hammond knocked quietly at my door. 1 don’t think any of us had realised how terrible the storm was. we are so far from the sea, ami so sheltered from the wind: besides, all our thoughts were so selfishly occupied w it h to-morrow. I couldn’t rest if I went back. Oh, do let me help you.” Others came crowding about the vicar in»w. ami congratulating Miss Vail on his safety. There was a confusion of excited voices, and plans for sheltering the live persons saved were eagerlv discussed. As for the men. they could be taken up to the village and housed there, but Sta infort h’s plan for carrying the woman to Andrew Garth’s cottage was generally approved. It was a strange thing that she should be given refuge under the roof of a dying man. but there was no other house so near, and Andrew was past being disturbed by such an intrusion. From all sides there were offers of help, prompt cd by kindness of heart, but also by curiosity, for. though no one—not even Stainforth—-had seen the woman's face yet. to know whether f»he was ohl or young, plr.iu or beautiful. f»he was the only person saved from the wreck 'except members of the crew; therefore she became the most interesting figure in the night’s tragic drama. But help from outside was not needed for the moment. As many of his poor parishioners knew by experience, “the parson was most as good as a doctor;”

and then, there was Miss Vail, who had nursed him m> cleverly, and old Mother Brodrigg, who was wise in all cases of illness. Besides, .Jenny Garth had permission from her father now. to follow Miss Vail into her grandfather's cottage; and when she had greeted her lover—one of the heroes who bad fought with’ and conquered the sea—she was ready to give her services. And so half the crowd went with the rescued sailors up the hill to the village, while the other half waited on the shore, to see the doomed yacht crunched by the Id u k fangs of the famous Lurlwiii Rocks. The woman he had saved lay like one dead in Stainforth’s arm. her clothing drenched, her body cohl as the sea which had given her up; her hair, loosened by wind and waves from its fastenings, tumbled in soaked dark masses round her face and throat, clinging to her shoulder and to Stainforth’s coat. Consuelo ran ahead to open the cottage door, ami he followed, laying his burden down on an invalid’s chair, which he himself had presented to obi Andrew Garth some weeks ago. The body lay limp and inert, as he placed it. the head falling to one side, the face turned towards the wall. Stainfort h saw that the woman was in evening cress. her gow n of lac.? over ro-c-col- < tired silk being torn to ribbons. The neck was uncovered, and laying his ba ml on the heart, he felt a faint, irregular fluttering. “She is alive.” he said. “Consuelo, will you ask Mrs. Brodrigg feu seme brandy. There is some in the house.’ 1 believe.*’ The girl, who had been close to him. moved quickly away, glad Io l»* made of use. ami for an instant Stainforth stood looking quietly at the still form in the chair. The woman had not swallowed much water he knew , for she luid been brought up from the cabin, and flung from the deck of tb.e yacht into tie boat, by oilc of the men who was afterwards saved. Stainforth himself had caught her in his arms, and had thus broken her fall, so that unless she hail been hurt in some way on the yacht, she could have sustained no serious injuries. She had merely swooned, he thought, through tear and exposure*. To-morrow. perhaps, or after a. few days rest, she would Im* physically as well as ever. But had she lost those nearest and dearest to her? Would li r .* be worth living for her. after this right of terror? With a pang of pity. Stainforth gently lifted away the wet clinging veil of hair which streamed across the woman’s face, and coiled snakeliko round h< r white throat. Then, as gently, !*»-* turned the averted face towards his own. which bent over it. Had the earth at that instant opened under his feet, the end of the world for him could not haw? seemed more imminent. The name fell from his lips without their consent; he heard it like a dreary echo from the past, spoken not by him self but ly some accusing spirit. Starting back, orret, frozen into silence, ho stood listening as if for an answer, hut none camo, save from Consuelo, who appeared on tb.e threshold of the adjoining room. “Did you call me. Lame?” she a-ked. “No.” he u -plied dully. “I thought 1 heard you speak. 1 haven’t got the brandy yet. Mrs. Brodrigg i' looking for it. Do you think the poor woman has only fainted?” “Only fainted.” he echoed. Th- n. rousing himself, he said: “Dear child, don’t conic to n«* now. Help Mrs. Brodrigg find the brandy.” (‘< nsuclo's sensitive ears deluded a subtle change in his voice, though ho >p<»k*; so quietly. “Something ha- shocked or dist:» s-ed him. and he doesn't want me to sec.” she told herself quickly: her thought was that Im had seen the woman’s face, and found it disfigured by some terrible wound; but sl.p made no protest against the decree of banishment. Returning to the room where the dying man lay. still breathing stertorously. she followed the old woman to the tiny kitchen beyond, the third a ml only other room which the cottage contained. .All the forces of Stainforth’s being seemed for a moment annihilated. “Your wedding . ve —your w<*dding we!” the words echoed mockingly in his rars. lie shut his lips tightly togetlnr and decided that all must go on as before. Aera Wenwick had coiik» back into his life too late. Even for the bake of his

promise, he would >iot give up Consuelo HOW. When lie had found Vi m’s letter, there would still have been time for the grefsacrifiee. Then, no one knew of his love for Cojisu-10. and hers for him, except the girl’s own father, and Sir Anthony Wyndham.. Now, everyone in Consuelos little world knew. If the marriage were broken off at this eleventh hour, no deedit explanation could be given to her friends. If it were supposed that she had thrown him over she would he blamed even by- her best friends. If. on the other hand, he were to appear the one shamed. In either ease, all her world would be ringing with gosisp. Even apart from the anguish of parting, the girl’s lionta would be made intolerable. Iler life would be broken. No. ho could not bear it. 1 hey two la-long.-d to one another now and forever. But Consuelo must not know who this woman was—not till after she was his wife, at all events. Even to know would mean misery for her. for she would fer-1 that he was miserable. And all these thoughts troopeel through his brain in a moment after the great shock of his discovery. He felt broken, utterly spent, but he did not think of liinw-lf: his one preoccupation was to save the girl behoved from present or future suffering. She was gone only two or three minutes, but returning with .Mrs. Brodrigg and the brandy, the look on his face as he turned to her, made her pause on the threshold. More than ever was she confirmed in her iirst theory: there was something terrible which he did not wish her to see. Stainforth took two or three steps towards her, keeping himself between the girl and the unconscious woman, in such a way that it would be impossible for Consuelo to see the other’s face, except by pressing past him, which he knew she would not do. "My darling." he said quietly, "I don’t need you here any longer. I want von to go home now with Jenny, and try to sleep, so that you may be fresh and bright for to-morrow, in spite of all the anxiety and excitement of to-night.’’ Consuelo did not now insist on remaining. or plead as she had before. She was sure that he had a reason for ban-

ishing her which he did not wish to give, and sire would not try to force his confidence or strive lu impose U?r will upon him; he was wise and good, and he would not abruptly send her from him like this, unless it were best that she should be thus hurried away. “Very well,” she said rather heavily, for she longed to stay. *T will go. But tell me first; do you think that the poor woman will get well? And promise me that you’ll soon go home ami change your wet things.” “Yes,” he answcre<l, a certain sharpness in his voice that struck her oddly. “She will get well. There is no need for you to be anxious about her, or about me. 1 promise to take care of myself. And. now. farewell, my darling —until to-morrow’ at twelve. After that, please God. there'll be no more farewells.” lie could not kiss her. under the curious eyes of the old woman who had come into the room, but he pressed her hands convulsively. When she had gone into the night, well nigh put out of the house by his loving hands, and he had seen her walk up the hill with Jenny, he stood at the open door for a moment, the wind ami rain cooling the fevered beating of his temples. Down on the beach a group of people waited still for the breaking up of the yacht. They were so near that he coukl hear their voices, blown towards him by the wind. But he did not think of them; he listened only to the voice that ’vhispered in his ear—the voice that had whimpered, “Your wedding eve" and now whispered other words as poignant. “Would you have saved her if you had known?” it asked. (To be Continued.)